


Hell On Wheels

by LastAmericanMermaid



Series: Rollin' Over [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Roller Derby, Avengers vs X-men, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Eventual Smut, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hockey, Humor, I Don't Even Know, I'm Sorry, I'm so obsessed with roller derby that I wrote an AU of it, M/M, Magneto Being Creepy, Military Background, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Roller Derby, Slow Build, Sports, Steve is an ex-NHL player, but derby style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastAmericanMermaid/pseuds/LastAmericanMermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes is an honorably discharged soldier who was captured by enemies while on a covert op and still struggles with PTSD--</p><p>His roommate is Natasha, lead jammer for the Brooklyn Bombshells, a WFTDA roller derby team with national ranking owned by obnoxious billionaire Tony Stark. </p><p>Natasha's derby team's new coach is Steve Rogers, ex-army and ex-NHL, total nerd and complete life-ruining babe. </p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in all the team rivalry, and the wipeouts, and the uphill climb of recovery, two dudes on skates figure out that they want to kiss each other. </p><p> </p><p>(Or: How I play roller derby and am so obsessed with the game that I created my own AU wherein the Avengers and X-men are all involved in a league. Spoiler: Magneto's the coach of the rival team. L O L.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So...this happened. 
> 
> I hope that any of you who are familiar with or fans of the sport of roller derby find this to your liking, and that maybe it can get a couple people interested in it! Go to your local team's bout, you will not be sorry. 
> 
> Also, please read and enjoy! <3

“So, explain to me again why you’re dragging me out of the safe comfort of my apartment on this miserable day?”

It’s Saturday, Saturday morning, even, and Bucky had been awake for approximately one whole hour when Natasha had crept into his room, pinched him hard on the ass, and told him to get dressed.

Now, they’re hoofing it straight from Bucky’s apartment all the way to some field house or whatever the hell, and somehow Bucky got stuck carrying Natasha’s giant duffel bag.

“I already told you,” Natasha replies evenly, walking at a pace that should be impossible for someone with as petite in stature as herself, “You’re coming to practice with me.”

Bucky groans, shifting the strap of the duffel so it sat more comfortably on his shoulder. He knows it would be easier just to use the left shoulder—reinforced alloys and all—but something always makes him grit his teeth and use the right. He has been told by many, many friends (okay, just the three he’s got) that his refusal to rely on the future-tech prosthetic he’s been given is akin to old people who refuse to use hearing aids, and then turn the television volume up to 100.

“I’ve seen you play, ‘Tasha. You’re unstoppable. What’s the real reason?”

Bucky can’t be sure whether or not he imagines the sly pull of the corner of Natasha’s mouth.

“Our new coach started last week. He’s pretty awesome, actually. We’re gonna be a totally different team by the time the season starts.”

Bucky could smack himself in the face, because _seriously?_ He should have smelled the set-up coming from a mile away. He inwardly curses Natasha and her yenta-ing ways.

“You know how I feel about you trying to shove me into the arms of any available guy you might know, so—”

“—Just hear me out on this one, okay? If you aren’t at least a little teeny-tiny bit interested, I promise. I’ll stop trying to set you up. Okay?”

“I— _ugh_. Fine. But a deal’s a deal, Romanov. No more matchmaking attempts.”

Natasha nods, looking solemn. “I swear, James. This is the last one, scout’s honor.”

Bucky snorts. The mental image of Natasha as a Girl Scout is as highly improbable as it is amusing.

“Stop trying to picture me in a slutty green uniform.”

“I wasn’t!”

She shoots Bucky a withering glare. “ _Please_.”

. .

 

The Brooklyn Bombshells fieldhouse is in a better area of the city, thanks to Steve’s friend and the team’s one and only sponsor, eccentric (read: _obnoxious_ ) billionaire tech genius Tony Stark.

Steve wasn’t sure what to expect when Tony’d told him he had an ‘idea’ for how Steve could spend his copious amounts of newfound free time, but Steve can safely say that coaching women’s flat track roller derby was nowhere near what he’d imagined.

A couple of months ago, when Tony had first offered him the coaching position, Steve had thought roller derby was a thing left back in the ‘70s, like Farrah hair or white leisure suits. He’d given some vaguely noncommittal answer and forgotten about it pretty quickly.

Then, about a month after Tony’s proposal, Steve wound up completely engrossed in a documentary about the Portland derby team, the Rose City Rollers. He’d been so impressed by the women’s athleticism, their toughness; it looked nothing like that corny Raquel Welch movie he saw when he was a kid.

Steve had been suddenly unable to stop watching clips of derby bouts, reading blogs about it, even checking out a couple more documentaries online. The way the women flew around that track, the way they took hard hits and got right back up, wearing minimal padding. The way they played clean and played smart. The way the body types on the teams came in literally every shape and size.

Steve was reminded, bittersweetly, of hockey.

He’d played it his entire life—even when he was skinny as a rail and no good at much more than skating in circles—and then, when he was only 18, he’d _made_ it. He was playing for the NHL, wearing an Avengers jersey with ROGERS and 42 on the back. Steve had never been happier; he’d been doing what he loved, getting paid for it, and being part of a team.

He’d always liked that the best, even as a kid; being part of a team meant that you all played with a common goal, and that you worked together. _A player is only as good as his team_ was Steve’s favorite tired-but-true cliche.

But then, the Towers had fallen. 9/11 changed America, changed the values of a lot of things, especially for Steve.

He thought about all the men and women who were shipping off to places far away, where violence and death awaited them. He thought about how his dad had died during the Gulf War. He thought about how he was being paid 7-figures to slap a hunk of rubber into a net.

There really hadn’t been much of a choice, not for Steve.

Tony’s family’s best lawyer had helped him step out of the three-year contract he’d barely played one year of, and Steve had enlisted in the Army.

And it was _brutal_.

He lost a lot of friends, too many; he spent nights shivering and days sweating, always with the knowledge that any day could be the day he was too slow, or too distracted, or just not strong enough.

When Steve had decided to leave with an honorable discharge and medals he didn’t believe he deserved, it was 2011 and somehow, _ten years_ had managed to pass him by. He was nearly thirty, had virtually no college experience, no family, and had no idea how to even begin going about building a new life for himself.

Sam Wilson from the VA turned out to be a godsend—he helped Steve get back on his feet mentally, and turned around and became Steve’s best friend.

Now, they share a decently roomy apartment in Brooklyn, and Sam nags him constantly about getting back into team sports somehow as part of his therapy.

“What’s your hang-up about Stark’s offer, man? Sounds to me like it’d be a good fit.” Sam had said easily, with that look he used to cut through all Steve’s internal bullshit.

“I just—it’s,” Steve had struggled to find the words “I haven’t skated in years, Sam. What if—”

“—Come _on_ , Rogers. You know how I feel about ‘what-if.’ Just take a chance. If it doesn’t work out, you can bitch about it to me for a year.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Steve had warned lightly, though his smile was genuine.

. . .

 

“Good _morning_ , Bombshells,” the coach’s voice booms through the pavilion, and the tone and Brooklyn drawl hit Bucky low in his stomach. “Nice that you could all be here on time. Pads on, sock feet. Put your skates in the center of the rink, you know the drill.”

Natasha gives him a smug look before dashing off to warm up. A few of the other girls are still strapping on their knee and elbow pads, and Bucky wanders over to sit on the bench with them.

“ _Ooh_ , we have an audience today,” purrs Kate Bishop (aka LadyHawke), tightening the velcro straps around her wristguards. “Are you here to peep the new coach, Barnes?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and shrugs. “Tasha dragged me here against my will.”

“You might want to wait on complaining until you’ve seen the guy,” Carol chimes in, buckling on her helmet and tightening the chinstrap. “He’s kind of like the American wet dream.”

Carol Danvers, a former Air Force Officer with the derby name Major Damage, is always trying to get Bucky to squirm uncomfortably. Actually, now that he thinks about it, all the roller girls seem to have no greater passion in life than to make him uncomfortable.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure he’s a real dreamboat,” Bucky scoffs, feeling irritated and a little embarrassed.

“You ladies are talking when you should be geared up, let’s go.” That same voice that had sent heat curling low in Bucky’s stomach a few minutes ago is suddenly right behind him.

Turning around, Carol and Kate both bat their eyes and say in breathy, Marilyn-esque voices “ _Hi_ , Coach.”

 _Hi, Coach, indeed_ , gapes Bucky, feeling stricken.

The guy is over 6-feet, and looks like he’d been cut from marble. Pale, insanely built, and—Bucky’s eyes travel up from the guy’s torso to his face—fucking _gorgeous._

Blue-eyed and blonde with a strong jaw and the reddest lips Bucky’s ever seen, the Bombshells’ new coach is a babe.

Natasha, goddamn her, had been telling the truth.

“And who’s this?” Babe-Coach asks with a little quirk of his eyebrow. It takes several seconds and Carol jamming her elbow into his ribs for Bucky to realize that the coach is talking to him.

“ _Oh_ , uh, I’m Bucky. I’m just here for Natasha—Black Widow. She dragged me along to carry her gear.”

“Bucky, huh? Well, it’s nice to know that Natasha’s got a healthy slave. Good help is hard to find,” the coach jokes, then extends one long-fingered hand for a shake. “I’m Steve Rogers, the new head coach—”

“For now!” Natasha crows from the rink, currently doing grapevines facing outward with the other girls.

Carol and Kate dash off to join everyone else, giggling in a way that makes everything _so_ much more humiliating.

Bucky sighs, then takes Steve’s proffered hand and shakes it; he’s stupidly relieved that the guy doesn’t even bat an eye at the look or feel of Bucky’s prosthetic.

“Better get out there and run some drills, ‘else she’ll skate all over you,” Bucky tells Steve seriously, though a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Steve actually goes a little pink around the ears and smiles sheepishly. “You’re right, of course. I’ll, uh, see you later?” he gives Bucky one last heart-crushing grin before striding in a half-jog onto the rink.

Bucky tries valiantly not to watch Steve's ass in those track pants as he goes.

 

He really does.

 .

Watching the Bombshells once they’ve finished warm-ups and strapped on their skates is actually incredible, though Bucky has seen it countless times before.

Today, they’re doing speed trials, which means every girl has to skate twenty-seven laps (at least) in five minutes.

The fastest skater is one of the youngest on the team; a newly-minted Bombshell named Wanda Maximoff, alias Red Scare. She zooms around the track, making 31 laps in the five allotted minutes, wearing a huge smile the whole time.

Coming close in second with 29 laps is Peggy Carter (whom Bucky has always had a _serious_ crush on), derby name Queen Elizabeast, wearing immaculate red lipstick and barely sweating at all. Natasha ties with Peggy for second, making it look as effortless as everything else she does.

When they work on pack-skating and blocking, Carol Danvers at 6-feet tall without skates on has a clear advantage over the others, only further cementing her status as Pivot. Maria Hill (derby name Fast & Furiosa) keeps the other skaters in line with a steely gaze and flawless position.

Peggy’s cousin Sharon (alias Sharon Stoned) is out of play with a knee injury, so she comes in late and limps over to Bucky to sit down beside him on the bench.

“Sup, Barnes? Wishing it was you taking orders from the Cap?”

Bucky, startled out of his derby-induced trance, blinks several times before scowling at the smirking blonde.

“Is that what you harpies are calling him? ‘Cap’?”

Sharon dimples at Bucky, grin widening.

“Nat didn’t tell you? That’s not just our new coach you’re pretending not to ogle; that’s _Captain America_ , thank you very much.”

Bucky stares flatly back at her. “ _Captain America?_ ” He repeats dryly. “And why, pray tell, is that?”

But before Sharon can reply, that same life-ruining voice from before interrupts again.

“—The girls found out that I used to be in the Army, and it all kind of spiraled from there.”

Bucky forces himself to turn and look at the pillar of shining attractiveness to his left, willing himself to calm the fuck _down_ , Barnes.

“Army, huh? I did my time as well. Where did you serve?”

“Afghanistan. Pretty much on a rotation that lasted from ’02 to 2011, on and off. Captain Steven Rogers of the 107th,” Steve salutes briefly, managing to look both incredibly authoritative and adorable.

Bucky snaps up to attention, returning the salute.

“ _Sir_ , I apologize for my nosiness. Natasha didn’t tell me. Sergeant James Barnes, 104th.”

“At ease, soldier.”

Bucky feels like his face might actually burn up completely, leaving a pile of smoking ash at Steve Rogers’ feet.

“And you weren’t being nosy, I promise.” Steve looks away, almost like he’s _shy_ or something. “Honestly, I’ve been out for four years. I’d rather just be Coach Steve—”

“—Ew, no, that makes you sound like some kind of pervert t-ball coach.” Sharon interjects, reminding both Bucky and Steve that she’s still sitting there.

Steve lets out a big, goofy, gorgeous laugh, and Bucky tries to come to grips with the fact that this guy is likely going to kill him.

“Okay, fair point. Just ‘Steve’ is fine. Better than, actually…” Steve furrows his brow suddenly. “Wait, so do you go by ‘James’ or by ‘Bucky’?”

Bucky feels himself turning into Jell-O, but he is nothing if not the king of smooth recoveries. Well, he _used_ to be, anyhow. Seems he’s in need of a little lubrication in that department—and _jesus_ , he needs to get ahold of himself.

“Ah, James is usually reserved for my superiors, parents, and/or Natasha. You can call me Bucky.”

Steve smiles so prettily that it should be illegal.

“You’ll have to tell me the story behind that one day,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners.

This is when Bucky notices his motherfucking _dimples_.

“Only if you beat me at cards,” Bucky finds his usual charming self after several minutes of floundering, thank fuck.

“Oh, is that how it is?” Steve’s eyes get sort of twinkly, and shit, Bucky is in trouble. Then, with a wince, Steve adds “I should probably get back out there to supervise hitting and falling, though.”

“Yeah, _Coach_ , you should probably get back out there.” Sharon drawls, clearly enjoying the hell out of this.

Steve goes a little pink again, which only makes his stupidly blue eyes even bluer, and then he’s skating back onto the track.

“So,” begins Sharon, turning to leer at Bucky.

“—Don’t even fucking think about it, Carter.”

Bucky needs silence if he’s gonna think of exactly how to phrase the extreme talking-to he’s planning for Natasha on the walk home from practice.

Sharon Carter, meanwhile, is doubled up with silent laughter next to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very brief, but I wanted to make sort of a good-faith post because now I'm TOTALLY into writing this!
> 
> Thank you to those of you who already have left comments and kudos, I am kind of surprised in the best way. 
> 
> It's awesome to see that derby really does reach far and wide!

 

“You owe me like, thousands of dollars in apology coffee,” Bucky jabs a finger in Natasha’s direction as they trek back to their apartment.

It’s a beautiful, gloomy fall day outside; the wind is just the right kind of biting, and the lingering heat from summer has finally (Bucky crosses his fingers) gone.

Natasha snorts, checking both ways before stepping into the crosswalk.

“For what, introducing you to a hot guy? Draw me a map of how that leads to apology coffees, because I’m lost.”

Bucky scowls, hefting Natasha’s gym bag higher on his— _left_ —shoulder.

“You coulda at least told me there was a hot guy! I wouldn’t have rolled out of bed in sweats and yesterday’s shirt if I’d known,” Bucky groans, remembering all over again the devastating curve of Steve’s lower lip.

“But if I’d _told_ you there was a guy, you wouldn’t have even come with. I have to be careful with my manipulations, James. You know this.”

“Yeah, well, I _also_ know that you and the brunette Carter are not nearly as sneaky as you think. Red lipstick on your bra when I did the wash,” Bucky counters, because with Natasha, you can’t be expected to fight fair.

Natasha slugs him in the gut, though she’s smiling like she’s pleased.

“It’s the accent,” she sighs, eyes gleaming with something coquettish that Bucky hasn't seen in her face for a little while. “Now, let’s go get some coffee in you. I think you’ve earned one, at least.”

. .

“Dude, are you really surprised that Natasha has hot friends?” Sam asks from over the breakfast bar, one eyebrow quirked skeptically.

Steve rummages in the fridge for a water bottle, and to cool his burning cheeks.

“Well, _no_ , I guess, not when you put it like that.” Steve sighs, uncapping the water and closing the refrigerator door. “He’s also a vet; guy’s got some insanely advanced prosthetic arm. And a jaw that could cut glass, _fuck_ , I hope he didn’t think I was completely lame.”

Sam scoffs. “Man, look at yourself right now. All flustered over some dude with a good jaw. I swear, anytime you meet someone hot, you transform into an 8th grade girl.”

Steve can’t even protest too indignantly—he knows he’s never been the one to play it cool when he’s even remotely interested in someone.

Still, Sam is _supposed_ to be his best friend.

“You’re supposed to be my best friend, and yet here you are, mocking my ineptitude.”

“I mock because I care. If you were anyone else, now I would ask ‘so, what’s the deal, did you get his number?’ but since you are _not_ anyone else, and you are Steve Rogers, king of missed opportunities, I know better.”

Steve throws a dishrag at Sam, who dodges it easily, sticking his tongue out like an obnoxious 8th grade boy.

. .

Bucky used to be good at flirting, really he did.

He used to have an easy sort of charm that he could turn on as easily as flicking a light switch, a way with people that could get them blushing and batting their eyes at him within minutes.

He supposes that being held and tortured by an insurgent group for nearly a month, then getting his arm blown to shreds by proximity to an IED might do some damage to the ol’ charisma.

Because when he gets in his own head, he thinks that probably he’d make the worst kind of boyfriend given the chance. He’s twitchy; he can barely sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat and the ghost of hands around his throat. His left arm is entirely metal, and it gets cold in the dark when he’s not using it. He flinches at the sound of car doors slamming sometimes. How could he hope to sleep next to another person?

When Natasha’d moved out of Clint’s place (Clint being the jam-ref for the Bombshells, also known as Hawkeye) she had casually mentioned that she was looking for a roommate. Bucky had been reluctant, but eventually agreed. Natasha understood about flashbacks and trauma. She was unruffled by the personal issues of others.

But...it’s been five years since he’s been back, five years spent in therapy and PT and getting by on his Army pay, and Natasha seems to have decided that Bucky is officially ready to get back on the horse...Hence why she’s been throwing attractive single people at him like he’s the target on a dunk tank.

 

It’s Tuesday night, and Bucky’s still absentmindedly thinking of that impossible blush on Steve’s face when he wanders out of his room in search of beer.

Instead, to his mortification, he finds Natasha straddling Peggy’s hips on the couch, one leg effortlessly draped over Peggy’s shoulder to dangle over the armrest of the sofa.

“ _Shit_ , ‘Tasha! This is supposed to be public space in here!” Bucky squawks, covering his eyes with one hand.

He can practically hear the coy smug smile on Natasha’s face when she replies, “Relax, James, she’s helping me stretch.”

He _does_ hear, as he hightails it to the kitchen, cheeks blazing, Peggy’s musical laughter

.

“Are you two done, ah, _stretching_ in there, or should I drink two more beers while you finish up?” Bucky calls from in the kitchen.

“Just about,” Natasha answers, “Give me five minutes,” and Bucky tries so hard not to hear the shallow breathing or slide of body parts on the couch cushions.

He also tries not to hear when Peggy says teasingly, with that smooth crisp accent of hers, “Five minutes, hm? Awfully sure of ourselves, aren’t we?”

 _Jesus_ , he thinks, grabbing himself another beer from the fridge and holding the cold bottle to his cheek in hopes of cooling down some.

He shouldn’t be so surprised, honestly. He’s walked in on Natasha in far more compromising positions. Hell, he used to _be_ in more compromising positions with Natasha.

(Long, long ago in a faraway land called spec ops training, they’d had a brief but intense fling. There was a lot of sweaty, rough sex and filthy pillow talk in Russian involved before they decided they made better friends than lovers.)

Still, it's always hard to see people who are clearly intimate when Bucky’s been without for…well, for a _while_.

Sure, he gets hit on when he goes out, even gives or gets the odd hand- or blowjob in bathrooms at clubs—but Bucky’d rather not think about how long it’s been since he’s been _fucked_. Since he’s fucked someone.

 _Bet that Steve Rogers ain’t no slouch in bed_ , Bucky’s traitorous brain supplies unhelpfully, and then he’s guzzling his beer to try and flush out the image of Natasha’s coach spread out on Bucky’s bed with his red-red lips parted, and—

“You can stop jerking off in there, we’re decent,” Natasha calls, and Bucky nearly chokes on his beer.

“You wish I was jerking off,” he responds, grabbing three more beers before shuffling back into the living room.

Peggy and Natasha are slumped on the sofa, fully clothed but looking disheveled.

Peggy’s lipstick is half-off her mouth, the rest of it having made its way onto Natasha’s face. Natasha is looking pleased, her cheeks a little flushed, and she reaches for one of the beers before Bucky can even offer.

“Pegs?” He hands one of the others to Peggy, who takes it with a self-satisfied smile.

“Thanks, Barnes. Sorry we offended your virginal ears,” she says slyly, before bringing the bottle to her lips and taking a long pull.

“Oh, fuck off.” Bucky waves her away, taking a pull of his own beer. “By the way, is that tattoo on your thigh new? Looks pretty fresh.”

Peggy grins, lifting the hem of her shorts to reveal a 5-by-2 pinup girl inked onto the creamy-ivory skin of her thigh, done in stunning World War II-era style, like one of those dreamy retouched photos.

The pinup is wearing a British military uniform—well, what little there is of it—and a pair of quad skates. She’s saluting the Union Jack and winking saucily.

Bucky whistles, low and impressed. “Did you get that one at Darkholme again?” he asks, remembering that most of the Bombshells favor that particular tattoo shop for the head artist and owner, Raven Darkholme, whose ability to tattoo almost any style flawlessly sets her apart from many other artists in NYC.

Peggy grins, and Natasha reaches over to trace the curve of the pinup girl’s thigh with her index finger.

“Yes, actually. I can’t imagine going anywhere else for tattoos since I’ve been a client of Raven’s. She’s brilliant.” Peggy beams, and Bucky thinks it’s a little unfair that she can look so lovely with lipstick all over her chin.

“You should get your next one there, James,” Natasha adds, reading Bucky’s mind with that eerie ability she seems to have.

“Thinking about it,” Bucky agrees, suddenly itching to get another tattoo.

He has a pretty big piece that covers most of his back, a black and grayscale rendering of a snowy winter forest in Siberia done almost as if with charcoals; a thicket of spidery trees forming a tunnel and a black sun above. A single raven is silhouetted in the center of the tunnel, and the black sun has a red star in the center, the only color in the whole piece. Bucky’s last op was in Siberia, and he almost didn’t make it out alive. He wanted to have a reminder of that on his body, permanently.

“Why don’t you ever get any tattoos, darling?” Peggy says, turning to brush a stray curl behind Natasha’s ear.

Bucky knows better than to comment on the endearment, but he smirks at Natasha just so she’s clear on the fact that he will be teasing the shit out of her when Peggy leaves. Natasha rolls her eyes and leans over to bite Peggy’s earlobe.

“I’ve told you guys a million times; I’m still on-call for the job that I can’t talk about, and tattoos are a definite no-no until I’m no longer in their employ.”

“Or maybe you’re just scared,” Bucky drawls, grinning even as the couch cushion flies at his face with deadly accuracy.

 

The three of them drink six or seven more beers between them, shooting the shit and half-watching _Bad Girls Club_ on television before Peggy kisses Natasha goodnight and Bucky walks her to her bike.

(He knows she can take care of herself, and that Natasha can more-than take care of herself and anyone else, but some things his mother taught him when he was young have stuck around, stubborn as all hell. Never let a lady walk home alone at night, he still can’t shake.)

When he gets back to the apartment, Natasha is lying on the floor, cushion under her head, watching a Korean soap opera. Hearing Bucky come in, she turns to smile up at him. “You know, if you ever wanted to actually watch Peggy and me—”

“I actually hate you, you know.”

 

Lying in bed, after he’s showered and brushed his teeth, done some routine maintenance on his bionic arm, Bucky stares up at the ceiling and frowns because, yeah, he _really_ needs to get laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More soon! 
> 
> <3 *skates away* *does t-stop and puts on sunglasses* idk


	3. Chapter 3

 

Steve wakes up at 5am on the dot every morning, whether he wants to or not; his mother used to tell him he was born in the morning, so he’d always be a morning person.

( _Shit_ , he misses his mom. Sarah Rogers passed away while Steve was on his second tour of Afghanistan; a fact for which Steve has never forgiven himself.)

This morning is crisply, bracingly cold in the way that perfect fall mornings always are. It’s not quite cold enough for layering (though Steve runs hot most of the time) though goosebumps raise along his bare arms for the first two blocks or so.

Steve loves running early in the morning, as opposed to late at night; for one thing, it’s safer. Less people out and about when the sun’s not up yet. Even in a city like New York.

He grew up in the Bed-Stuy neighborhood, though he can’t say he misses it overmuch. Too many memories of bloody knuckles and hacking pneumonia coughs. Too easy to think of his mom, spending her last moments with a nurse instead of with her own son. Now, he lives in Greenpoint with Sam, on a block where the apartments and homes are filled with people of all languages and races.

He likes this neighborhood, likes that he can run the track at McCarren Park on mornings like this, when the moon is still out and the clouds are pink against the dark morning sky. Sometimes, Sam will run with him, when he hasn’t had a late one the night before or if he’s in the mood for skipping the gym in favor of a more scenic workout.

 

This morning, Steve is on his own, so he pushes himself hard, like he’s got something to prove.

(As it happens, he does. Growing up sickly and weak will do that to a person.)

When he reaches the track, Steve notices someone else nearly halfway around on the other side, running as fast as Steve does, if not faster. The other runner is far enough ahead that Steve would have to really push himself to get within passing distance, but something oddly competitive in him makes him want to try.

Steve’s always loved running just as much as he loves skating, though the reasons differ. With running, there’s that feeling of muscles working so hard that it’s almost painful, that feeling like he can’t possibly go any faster or further, and then—then, there’s the full body rush. The absolutely _non_ -mythical runner’s high, which Steve is crazy for.

He pumps his arms, feels the power in his stride as he gains ground on the other runner. The wind stings his eyes, makes his nose run, but he couldn’t give a shit. For Steve, feeling all his body’s systems working like an efficient machine is the next best thing to sex. All those endorphins, all that sweat.

He knows it’s a dick move, and that he probably shouldn’t, but when he’s finally within passing distance of the other runner, Steve can’t resist saying “On your left,” as he passes.

He grins when he hears the indignant squawk from behind him, the “Oh, you fucking _punk_ ,” the other guy growls. Then, he suddenly sprints past Steve with a “You wanna play games, pal?” tossed Steve's way through gritted teeth.

Steve is aware of what an immature child he is, but there’s something incredibly satisfying about this kind of game of one-upping. He shakes his head, still grinning, before powering up to full speed again.

The two of them—Steve and the other runner guy—manage two miles of this, laughing like hooligans and eventually resorting to unsportsmanlike tactics like tripping and other-side-shoulder-taps.

When they finally call truce, the sun is starting to peek over the horizon just barely, and Steve doesn’t think he’s been this sweaty in a long time.

The other guy tugs his black hoodie over his head and off, and Steve’s mouth goes utterly dry when he sees a familiar face.

He’s been playing a stupid game of sprint-chicken with _Bucky_. Natasha's impossibly gorgeous friend from the fieldhouse last weekend.

Bucky must not have realized it was Steve until this moment, though, because he freezes for a half-second, eyes round and lips slightly parted. He relaxes pretty quickly, tongue swiping over his lower lip in a way that could only be an unconscious nervous tic.

 _He’s not actually trying to kill you_ , Steve tells himself.

In a wordless agreement, they start walking side-by-side around the track to cool down. Steve’s chest is still a little tight from the sprints, so he takes a minute to regulate his breathing again. He also notes with dismay that Bucky has his hair pulled back in a loose man-bun. A _man-bun_. One of Steve’s not-so-secret weaknesses.

“Steve, right? The Bombshells’ head coach?” Bucky asks, tilting his head and glancing sidelong at Steve.

Steve nearly trips over himself trying to answer.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. And you’re Bucky, Black Wid—Natasha’s friend. God, I’m _so_ —”

“—If you were about to say that _you’re_ embarrassed, save it. I can’t believe I tripped you. I’m a grown man and I tripped another grown man, what have I become?” Bucky interrupts, tying his hoodie around his waist and shaking his head.

The sunrise turns Bucky’s edges all orange-gold, glinting off his now-exposed prosthetic.

Steve decides that maybe this is not another exercise in mortification; maybe it’s serendipity.

“Hey, you were just doing what you had to do,” he replies, and feels himself starting to smile, surprisingly relieved at the easy banter Bucky offers. “It was actually pretty damn impressive, the way you managed to pull off a trip that sophisticated while still managing not to lose any ground yourself.”

Bucky ducks his head, almost shy, biting his lip and grinning.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a little shit?” He asks, glancing up at Steve with laughter in his eyes.

“Oh, all the time, growing up. There’s been a lull in recent years, though. Could stand to hear it again.”

Bucky tips his head back and laughs, real and full, and the sound makes Steve’s stomach do flips. Then, Bucky tilts his head like he’s considering something, gazing back at Steve from under heavy lids.

Steve is, for once, glad of the fact that exertion turns him practically crimson; easier to hide the flush that heats his cheeks from the weight of that gaze.

“You’re a little _shit_ , Steve Rogers.” Bucky drawls, corners of his mouth curling upwards in a way that makes Steve want to push him up against the nearest tree and—

— _there’s plenty of time for those kind of thoughts when you’re home in the shower, Rogers,_ Steve’s subconscious scolds him, in a voice that is disturbing like Sam’s.

“Well, hey, I don’t know what your day is like, or if this is totally creepy of me, but would you maybe wanna go get, um, a smoothie with me?” Steve is proud of how casually he manages to make the question sound, though his heart stutters in his chest.

Bucky laughs again, and Steve steals a glance only to feel almost dizzy at the sight of Bucky’s grin, toothy and perfect.

“Seeing as how this whole thing has been awesomely weird, I gotta say, it’s not all that creepy to ask me to get a smoothie with you. I should warn you, though, I drink smoothies from Darwin’s exclusively, so…”

Steve doesn’t think he could smile harder if he wanted to.

“Well, I guess it’s lucky that Armando and I grew up together, and it’d be an unforgivable sin for me to get my smoothies from any other place.”

Armando Muñoz owns Darwin’s, a little cafe just steps away from McCarren Park on Lorimer Street. Everything is fair-trade organic, and Armando has built up a loyal base of pleased customers with his creative blends for specific health needs.

Bucky reaches back to re-tie his hair, and Steve tries not to openly gape at the way Bucky’s bicep flexes involuntarily with the motion.

“Well, I guess that means you’re buyin’,” Bucky smirks, and Steve has to resist the urge to fire off a gloating text to Sam in regards to Steve’s supposed lack of game.

“Only because I feel bad for beating you on the track,” Steve says innocently, earning himself a good shove.

They make small-talk that is amazingly _not_ awkward as they walk side by side, and Steve is suddenly so grateful for his inability to behave like a grown adult.

If not for that, he might not have seen Bucky until the derby bout _next month_.

 

The walk to Darwin’s isn’t nearly long enough.

.

Bucky is on some kind of endorphin high brought on by the shenanigans on the track and close proximity to Steve goddamn Rogers.

They’re sitting at one of the little tables on the outdoor patio area in front of Darwin’s, drinking protein-packed smoothies and trading banter as easy as you please.

“So, how’d you become the head coach of a women’s roller derby team anyway?” Bucky asks, leaning back in his seat and enjoying the way the fall breeze chills the drying sweat on his skin. Steve ducks his head, smiling bashfully, and Bucky is almost angry at how long his damn eyelashes are.

“Oh, um, I’m a friend of Tony Stark’s--yeah, I know, it's nuts--and he knew that I’d been having kind of a rough time with…well, lots of shit.” Steve gives a little self-deprecating huff of a laugh.

And, _oh_ , that tugs at Bucky’s heart, because he knows what that’s like, doesn’t he? Coming home from war is more than just getting on a plane back to the States, that much Bucky knows very, very well.

His brain catches up, though, a half-second slow on the draw. “Wait, did you say Tony Stark?” Bucky wonders if he’s misheard. “He’s a friend of mine, too—well, when he’s not being the most obnoxious sonofabitch I’ve ever met. Designed this hunk of scrap for me as a personal favor,” he holds up the prosthetic, feeling uncharacteristically bold about it for once.

Steve leans forward a little, eyes all shiny and wide like a little kid seeing a dinosaur skeleton for the first time.

“Wow, that’s—I don’t know if it’s rude to compliment a prosthetic, but its, this is really incredible. I feel stupid for not guessing that it was a StarkTech job, though.” He says, clearly admiring the design, the way it is a near-perfect copy of the arm Bucky had lost, reborn in rare alloys.

“S’not rude, so long as you don’t ask me what it feels like to jerk off with,” Bucky doesn’t realize what’s slipped out of his mouth until it’s too late, and he feels his face going red. “Fucking hell, I didn’t—sorry, I’m _so_ sorry. Sometimes I say shit like that, I have like, zero filter living with the terror that is Natasha.” He winces, burying his face in his hands.

To his surprise, Steve doesn’t back away from the table with an exaggerated expression of disgust on his face; instead, Steve lets out a cackle that has Bucky dropping his hands so he can see Steve’s dazzling smile.

“Oh my god, have people actually _asked_ you that?” Steve crows in disbelief, reaching for his half-empty smoothie. "That's _awful_." 

Bucky snorts, recalling the times that stand out as especially inappropriate in his memory.

“Pal, you would not believe the shit people ask me. ‘So are you like, a robot?’ or how about, ‘I have this friend with a cyborg fetish..’ or, no, wait, my favorite: ‘What makes you so special that you get an arm like that and my son what’s-his-lips gets a glorified mannequin arm?’”

And, yeah, that last one comes out more bitter than he’d like; mostly because Bucky asks himself that same thing most days. What set him apart, besides having a powerful connection in Tony Stark, so that he was given such an advanced prosthesis while others might get to live with a stump? That was a dark road of though to travel, though, and Bucky’s therapist had worked hard to make sure he knew how to avoid going down it.

Luckily, when he glances across the table at Steve, there’s nothing like pity or forced positivity in the other man’s expression.

“Well, _I_ think that those people have terrible manners. If it were me, I’d rather ask inappropriate invasive questions about the tattoos on your right arm,” Steve deadpans, and Bucky feels the tension go out of him like air from a balloon.

He laughs and it feels easy, like the most natural thing in the world.

“Okay, you can ask _one_ question about one tattoo. But only ‘cause I feel bad for beating you so bad on the track,” Bucky retorts, glancing slyly at Steve to see if he recognizes his own words being repeated back to him.

“And you say _I’m_ the little shit,” Steve mutters, dimpling adorably. “Fine, one question you said? Hmm…” He pretends to think hard before shaking his head. “I’m not the kind of guy to ask nosy questions about people’s body art. But I will say, that the black-ink mandala on your forearm is gorgeous. Did you get that done at Darkholme?”

Bucky doesn’t know why he’s even surprised; everyone in Brooklyn seems to favor that shop.

He holds his right arm out on the table, turning it so Steve can better admire the lines and the delicate patterns of the tattoo.

“Alas, no. Got this one in Chicago at a convention by an artist named Tine DeFiore, specializes in black work. I’ve been meaning to go to Darkholme one of these days, but I’m a bum, so I keep putting it off.”

Steve looks like he wants to touch the tattoo, though he’s clearly to polite to even think of asking. Bucky wouldn’t mind those hands on his skin— _enough of that_ , he tamps down on that train of thought immediately. No need to pop a boner on a public sidewalk.

“You should really book an appointment there,” Steve says, almost reluctant in the way he drags his eyes away from the tattoo on Bucky’s forearm. “Raven’s not so in-demand yet that the wait will be insane, but she’s definitely heading that way. She actually did my last tattoo,” he adds, with that same sheepish grin.

Bucky feels his mouth go dry at the mental image of Steve-Captain America-Rogers with a tattoo. Any more thinking like that, and he might start drooling.

“I’d say you don’t strike me as the tattoo kinda guy, but…okay, I’ll say it. You don’t exactly strike me as the tattoo kinda guy, Rogers.”

Steve, the little fucking _shit_ , rests his chin on one hand and grins and says, “Oh, no? Is this the part where I tell you there’s a lot you don’t know about me, and then _you_ say you know, but that you’d like to find out?”

Bucky has been known to be oblivious of late, especially where flirting is concerned, but now he’s 100% certain that this, with Steve right now, is definitely flirting. He’s about to lean in a little, say something both somewhat clever and vaguely suggestive, so there’s no mistaking his intentions—

—and then, Steve’s phone goes off, vibrating loudly against the metal tabletop and blaring the U.S. Air Force song, all brassy and sudden enough to startle both of them.

Steve picks up the phone, glances at the screen and makes a face. “It’s my roommate, Sam. He doesn’t call unless it’s important, do you mind if I..?”

“Not at all,” Bucky assures him, wondering if ‘Sam’ could possibly be Sam Wilson, the guy from the VA with the killer smile and warm demeanor.

He fiddles with his phone so he doesn’t eavesdrop on Steve’s conversation, texting Natasha and scrolling through Twitter. When Steve ends his call a few minutes later, he looks like he just smelled sour milk.

“There’s a, um, a problem with one of the other tenants in our building. She’s this single mom, lives alone, but since her ex found out she’s been living there a couple months back, he comes around every so often, swearing, beating on her door and all.” Steve says, all the joy from a few moments ago gone from his face. “Sam and I usually take care of it, but I guess he’s pretty fucked up, waving some knife around and freaking out the other tenants.”

Bucky swallows, nodding once and trying not to be too disappointed. “Hey, no worries. This was—”

“—I know. I wish I could stay longer,” Steve says, sounding as reluctant to leave as Bucky feels. “But I’ve really got to handle this, there’s a young kid in there, and—”

Bucky wishes it wasn’t so damn attractive, this new hero-facet of Steve’s personality. He sighs, waves a hand.

“What are you waiting for, Cap? Go take care of it. I’ll bring you a smoothie at the fieldhouse sometime.” He says, smiling softly.

Steve returns the smile briefly, before his expression goes serious and hard, and before Bucky can say anything else, he’s watching Steve sprint away from the table, down the street, like he’s some kind of fucking superhero or something.

 

By the time Bucky gets back to his own apartment, he realizes with a mental facepalm that he didn’t get Steve’s number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So, now there is some real chemistry between these two lames. I didn't mean for this chapter to be so heavy on the meet-cute, but, well, it happened. 
> 
> There will be more honest actual derby stuff in the next chapter, because there's a bout with the rival team, duh! 
> 
> Also, can you tell I have a thing about tattoos? Tine DeFiore is a real artist whose work I admire SO. MUCH. I haven't got anything by them yet, but I plan on it. My last piece was by Linnea Pecsenye, who you can look up on instagram or tumblr to peep my chubby little mermaid kewpie tattoo! Yay, body art!
> 
> <3


	4. Chapter 4

 

By the time Steve gets to his building, it seems the cops have actually made it there pretty quickly for once, and Steve is just in time to watch Urszula’s piece-of-shit ex husband being put in the back of a squad car.

Sam, who is standing talking to one of the officers, notices Steve and shoots him a look of subtle annoyance.

Steve is…well, he’s disgusting, for one; what with the layer of dried sweat from the sprinting with Bucky, as well as this fresh sweat from the 8 blocks he ran to get here. He’s also, he realizes, physically exhausted.

It’s Thursday, which means it’s his day off, so he brushes past Sam and heads inside, up to their third-floor apartment for a much-needed shower.

The water feels impossibly good, and Steve rests his head against the tile wall for a few moments, just letting the spray hit his shoulders and back. Of course, closing his eyes makes it way too easy to think about Bucky, about his arms and his crooked smile and his stupidly square jaw—

—and without meaning to, without really realizing it, Steve’s reaching one hand down to stroke himself. He’s more than half-hard, just imagining what Bucky would look like without a shirt on, what his little pink rosebud mouth would look like stretched around Steve’s cock…

Steve comes so hard that his vision actually whites out for a couple of seconds, knees actually buckling with the force of it. When he recovers enough to get around to shampooing his hair, he realizes with a groan that he never got Bucky’s phone number.

.

“Sorry I wasn’t here to help out with the whole crazy-ex thing,” Steve says sheepishly when he shuffles into the kitchen in search of food.

Sam, who is sitting at the table doing a crossword puzzle, puts his pen down and shrugs.

“Hey, no big, man. It ended up working out. Just for curiosity’s sake, though, where _were_ you? Not like you not to be back from a run before the sun’s up.”

Steve feels the dumb grin spread across his face as he remembers his surprise workout partner, remembers how Bucky was actually—Steve hopes—flirting with him at Darwin’s. He relays the whole ridiculous story to Sam, who looks more gleeful the longer Steve talks.

When he finishes with, “And then you called,” Sam looks expectantly at Steve, eyebrows in danger of disappearing into his hairline. “ _And?_ ” He draws the word out, giving Steve a pointed look.

“ _And_ , like I said, then you called, and here we are.”

“You didn’t get them digits?” Sam crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at Steve.

Steve suddenly gets the feeling that he’s about to be chewed out. Still, he admits the sad truth.

“Well…no, but—”

Sam scoffs, interrupting. His face scrunches in disdain.

“Man, this is so typical. You had a flawless meet-cute with a dude who actually didn’t think you were a total dick with your whole ‘ _on your left_ ’ bullshit, and you didn’t even get his number?”

Steve starts to protest, albeit halfheartedly, then slumps into the chair opposite Sam, defeated.

“I’m hopeless, aren’t I?” He asks, burying his face in his hands.

“Yep," Sam agrees, "King of missed opportunities, like I keep saying.”

“Ugh.”

. .

Bucky goes with Natasha to a bar called the Hellfire Club on Friday, a popular spot with the local derby teams, and spends an hour whining about his almost-date with Steve over many, many Moscow mules.

Natasha listens, nodding at appropriate places, keeping her opinions to herself while looking vaguely bored, until Peggy slides into the booth next to her wearing a slinky black romper and Bucky knows it’s time for him to stop moaning about his nonexistent love life.

“ _Mm_ , you smell good, _Моя королева_. Are you wearing perfume?” Natasha presses her nose to the skin behind Peggy’s ear and inhales.

 _Honestly_ , Bucky thinks, rolling his eyes, _these two are worse than a couple of teenagers._

Peggy bats her away, laughing. “It’s the same perfume I always wear, darling. Missed me, have you?”

Natasha wraps an arm around Peggy’s waist and smiles only with her eyes.

“Of course not. I’m just happy that you're here so James will shut up about his sad crush on Cap.”

Peggy grins with too many teeth, and Bucky finds himself making some excuse about needing to piss so he can scram before they start in on him together.

 

The bar is pretty busy tonight, packed with a lot of people from the Brooklyn derby scene. Bucky says brief hellos to Carol, Kate, Maria, and Wanda on his way to the bathroom.

At the Hellfire Club, the walls are upholstered in a rich red fabric that practically drips down them, making it hard to see in the low light. Bucky blames this ill-conceived design scheme for the fact that he walks smack into none other than Tony Stark.

“Hey, watch where you’re— _well_ , if it isn’t tall, dark and robotic! Barnes, I though I told you not to be a stranger.”

Bucky always forgets how much of a trip Tony is in person; all the slick, fast talk and darting eyes.

“Seriously, Tony? I saw you at that party last month,” Bucky complains, accepting the one-armed hug Tony goes in for anyhow.

“Oh, wait, I’m being rude again. Pepper would be ashamed. This,” Tony gestures to a tall, angular man who Bucky would swear on his mother’s life hadn’t been standing there a second ago, “Is Erik Lehnsherr, he’s the owner and head coach of the Manhattan Mutant Schoolgirls, they’re in the league as well. Erik, this is James Barnes, a good friend of mine.”

“Pleasure,” this Erik-guy says with some vaguely German accent sounding incredibly bored, reaching to give Bucky’s hand a firm shake.

Tony rubs his hands together, a sure sign of impending doom, looking between Bucky and Erik.

“I was just talking to Erik here about doing a bout for charity, y’know, raise money for the neighborhoods that don’t have it so good.”

“Uh, that’s—that’s pretty cool, Tony. S’good. Good idea, I mean.” Bucky doesn’t do well in the company of strangers, especially not when they’re staring at him with piercing, unblinking eyes like Erik is.

(Bucky notices that Erik is wearing a damn _turtleneck_ , of all things. He looks like some ‘70s Bond villain.)

“Tony, I’m honestly more concerned with the fact that my daughter is hellbent on skating with your team than with her own fa—”

Bucky can’t help interrupting. “Wait, your _daughter?_ Who, uh, which skater is she? I’m roommates with Natasha—Black Widow, you’d know her as.”

Erik glares at Bucky, eyes like freaking laser beams.

“Wanda, ‘Red Scare’ or something, _honestly_.” Erik exhales sharply, jaw clenching. “I don’t understand why she doesn’t want to skate for the Schoolgirls.”

Bucky tries to wrap his brain around how a guy who looks _maybe_ thirty, thirty-five tops has got a daughter who’s nineteen.

“ _Yes_ , I got her mother pregnant when I was sixteen, don’t hurt yourself trying to do the math.” Erik snaps at Bucky before turning back to Tony. “Can’t you just, oh, I don’t know, persuade her? Tell her it’s for the good of the team?”

Tony looks far too amused for someone being loomed over by a scary man with shark teeth and a vaguely German accent. Bucky sees his chance, and takes it, mentally apologizing to Wanda as he does.

“Uh, not to get involved in your personal beeswax, but, Wanda’s over at the bar with a couple of the other Bombshells. Maybe you should just, ah, talk to her?”

Erik clenches his fists and makes a dramatic, frustrated noise. “Why do you think I arranged to meet Tony here in the first place? God, I need a drink. Where the hell is Charles?”

And then, he’s striding away through the sea of tattooed flesh and knit beanies on ridiculously long legs to find Charles. Bucky feels intensely sorry for Charles, whoever he is.

There’s a beat, then Tony pushes air through his lips and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Uh, yeah. So…that’s Erik, he’s certifiable, and I’m gonna disappear before he comes back! Nice seeing you again, buddy.” Tony punches Bucky on the arm, the left arm, hissing and shaking his hand when it makes a slight crunching noise against the metal.

Bucky stands there for several seconds, trying to process what exactly just happened, when a short, offensively pretty man clad in honest-to-god tweed—with freckles and vividly blue eyes and a ridiculous swoop of sandy brown hair—stops to ask Bucky in a posh English accent if he hasn’t by any chance seen a tall fellow with an unfortunate turtleneck?

“Um, I think he went to find you, actually. You’re Erik’s Charles?” He guesses, momentarily thrown off by the sheer brilliance of the short man’s answering smile.

“Ha, yes. I’m Erik’s, all Erik’s, God help me,” Charles laughs as though Erik Lehnsherr is the most quaint, charming thing on earth. “Which way did you see him go? Sorry to be a bother, it’s just, he’s got those blasted long legs and I can’t keep up with him as it is.”

“Round the other side of the bar, I think he went to embarrass his daughter.” Bucky drawls, suddenly wishing he’d taken his drink with when he’d left the table.

Charles rolls his huge eyes, (and _seriously_ , they’re blue enough to give even Steve’s eyes a run for their money) and sighs like only a long-suffering partner of an insane person can.

“Oh, hell. I thought he might not find out she was here. He’s really ever such a good father, it’s just that he comes on _awfully_ strong, and—” Charles stops mid-sentence, waving a delicate hand and huffing exasperatedly “—oh, what am I saying? You _met_ him, you know what I mean.”

Bucky can only nod, shaking Charles’ hand when the other man offers, then watch in a sort of stupor as he wanders off to find that lunatic Erik.

Then, Bucky decides he needs, like, five more drinks, and gives up the bathroom ruse to head back to the booth where Peggy and Natasha are being all gross and affectionate.

At least  _they_ don't give him crazy eyes. 

. .

Steve doesn’t go out a lot, never has; he’s always been a homebody when it comes to his free time, much to the detriment of his friendships. That’s why, when he gets a text in all caps from his former Avengers teammate Peter Quill to meet up with some of the other guys at a little-known dive-bar they all frequent called Rocket Raccoon’s Taproom, Steve figures he’d better suck it up and put some pants on.

“Wanna come grab a couple beers with some of my old hockey buddies?” Steve asks Sam as he’s grabbing a light jacket off the coat hooks by the door. Sam shoots him a look like _duh, why would you even ask?_ and they split a Lyft to the bar, since it’s just a bit too far to be in walking distance.

 

When they get there, Steve barely has two seconds to order beers before Thor Odinsson—Norwegian defenseman for the Avengers, and complete hulking beast of a guy—comes bounding over like a huge, overeager dog.

“Steven Rogers!” Booms Thor, never having quite gotten the hang of the short form of Steve’s name. “It has been far too long, brother!”

Steve whistles. “Jeez, look at you. I think you’re bigger than the last time I saw you, if that’s even possible,” he says, feeling all of about 95 pounds again in comparison with Thor’s bulk. Thor beams and pulls Steve into a rib-crushing bearhug, and Steve hangs onto his beer for fear of spilling it.

“Working on your playoff beard a little early?” Steve teases when he can breathe again.

“It is never too early to show one’s pride by their facial hair,” laughs Thor, smiling broadly. “ _Come_ , Steven, you and your friend, join us in the back booth.”

Steve forgot how contagious Thor’s enthusiasm for, well, _everything_ can be. He grins at Sam, who looks like he can’t believe Thor is even a real person, and they follow the preposterously broad-shouldered man to where the rest of the guys are posting.

“Well, fuck me sideways with chainsaw,” comes a gruff voice that has Steve grinning all over again. “Steve goddam’ Rogers, finally coming out for a drink? Now I’ve seen it all.”

Logan James, the burly veteran from Canada who started his career with the Maple Leafs at just 18 years old, looks more or less just as grizzled as he had when Steve had joined the Avengers.

“Figured I better come at least once every ten years, make sure you fuckers don’t forget about me,” Steve counters, clapping Logan on the back. “This is my buddy Sam, by the way.”

Everyone greets Sam, who seems pretty nonplussed at the presence of professional athletes.

Thor introduces Steve to the new faces, including the newest, a wide-eyed, curly-headed kid from Russia called Pietro Maximoff.

Steve’s brain struggles with placing the familiar name and large eyes for a second before the lightbulb in his brain clicks on.

“Hang on, Maximoff, you said? You wouldn’t happen to have a sister named Wanda, would you?” Steve asks the kid.

Pietro’s eyes light up, and he smiles broadly, looking younger than ever. In a thick accent, he speaks excitedly.

“ _Da!_ This is my twin sister Wanda! How it is you are knowing her?” Pietro suddenly looks wary of Steve, protective of his sister and clearly getting the wrong idea.

Steve raises his hands and shakes his head, laughing. “No! _No,_ nothing like that. It’s just, she skates for the roller derby team that I coach. She’s a star, faster’n all the other skaters by a long shot.”

Pietro beams, radiating brotherly pride in waves.

“We are skating for our whole lives. She is almost faster than me,” he adds with healthy dose of smugness.

Steve smiles at the rivalry that’s obviously there; he’s always had that slight pang all only-children get when they’re around close siblings.

“You should come check out the next bout if your schedule allows,” Steve tells Pietro, who nods in agreement.

Sam is engaged in an animated conversation with Peter Quill and Alex Summers regarding something going on with college football on one of the tv screens, and Steve should have known those three would hit it off.

 

It’s nice—more than nice, catching up with these guys, but somewhere between all the great stories and laughs, Steve aches thinking about what his life could have been like had he stayed with the team.

They'd made it to the playoffs last year, and he was at every game shouting himself hoarse. They didn’t win, but losing to fucking _Los Angeles_ has made them even hungrier for it this season.

Steve tries not to think about ‘what-ifs’, but it’s hard not to imagine what his life could be like if he were still the Avengers’ goalie.

God, he _misses_ hockey; the smell of the ice just after it’s been gone over with the Zamboni, the way his back would ache from crouching in position to guard the net, the sound of the buzzers.

 

He and Sam leave around 1am after many adamant promises to come to as many games as they can this season, and on the way back to their place, Sam slugs Steve on the shoulder.

“You know you’re allowed to miss it,” he tells Steve, giving him that I know where your head’s at look he’s got down pat. “It’s also okay if you sometimes wish you’d stayed with the team.”

Steve sighs, leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes.

“Yeah.” He says, though it sounds mechanical. “Yeah, no, I know. I know.”

“ _Good._ So stop having internal crises over there, you’re killing my buzz.” .

. .

Whoever said Saturday practices were a good idea had clearly never gone out on a Friday, Steve thinks as he chugs his third bottle of water in an hour. He’s at the fieldhouse checking everything over, briefing the refs and working on plays while he nurses the slight headache that accompanies his unaccustomedness to drinking lately.

Clint Barton looks like he had a rougher night than Steve, and they exchange the tired smiles of men well-past the age of all-nighters.

Darcy Lewis, the team’s acting manager (Tony Stark is nothing if not hands-off when it comes to actual business) and bout-announcer, however, is far too perky. She’s got a big, lipsticked smile and a pencil crammed into the pile of hair pinned atop her head.

When she comes in, she blows him a kiss and says, “Aw, Cap, you look like you got in a fight with your pillow and lost.”

Scowling at her, Steve thinks he might actually hate young adults, with their infallible bodies and ability to party with minimal consequences.

 

Practice is off to a shaky start; most of the girls are varying degrees of hungover, and no one seems to be able to give it their all.

There are roadblocks at every turn, it seems; Wanda falls on her tailbone so many times she has to get an ice-pack, Peggy looks positively green around the edges, and Sharon can barely keep her eyes open.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration when they topple like dominoes trying to execute a new play. He hates being the bad guy; he _knows_ they’re all grown adults and he can’t tell them how to act when they’re not on the track, but he _also_ knows he’s got to set some parameters.

“Alright, everyone center up, take a knee.” He calls, blowing on his whistle though it pierces his own ears like hell.

When all the skaters have gathered around, Steve tries his best to sound authoritative without sounding like a condescending prick.

“Look, I know you guys have social lives, and that’s not an issue. I think, um, that being said, that we should talk about hangovers and derby, and how they don’t mix.”

Several team members groan, though they sound like actual groans of discomfort as opposed to groans of annoyance. Steve soldiers on, feeling more confident.

“I’m not at a hundred percent today, either. I was out late, and I feel like shit. What I’m getting at here is that I don’t like coaching when I feel like hot garbage, so I’d be willing to bet you all don’t like skating when you feel like it.”

There are some murmurs of agreement, some eye-rolls from Natasha and Carol, who seem no worse for wear other than a little tiredness around the eyes.

“Part of me wants to be a dick and make you skate through it, but the part of me that’s an athlete knows that’s a terrible idea. I want you all to go home and get some rest, really refuel and detox. If any of you are free tomorrow afternoon, we can do a make-up practice, sound good?”

Stronger agreements now from the women, along with some sighs of relief and one “Oh, thank _fuck_.” that Steve thinks might have been Kate Bishop.

And so, twenty minutes later with his head pounding, frustrated more with himself than with the team, Steve hoofs it back to his block.

 

He chooses to ignore the tiny part of him that’s disappointed that Bucky wasn’t there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for all the love this has been getting so far! I would love to hear from all you derby fans and skaters pretty please! <3 
> 
>  
> 
> At the rate this fic is going, I will either a.) have to add more chapters, or b.) finish it by the weekend. WhOAhaohaoa.
> 
>    
> *also, Моя королева = my queen 
> 
> ;D


	5. Chapter 5

“Rise and shine, James.”

Bucky opens his eyes blearily to see Natasha looming over him with that creepy blank look she’s perfected.

Glancing at the sunlight beaming spitefully in through the window, he groans.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at practice? Don’t tell me you’re actually hungover for once.”

Natasha hops over Bucky, quick and graceful, to flop down on the bed next to him.

“Nope,” she says cheerfully, making herself comfortable while Bucky glowers at her. “Coach sent us home because everyone was so out of it. Seems he had a rough night last night, too.”

Bucky hates himself for wondering, with a twinge of jealousy, whether Steve’s rough night involved hooking up with someone who is not Bucky.

Natasha’s smirk tells Bucky that she’s guessed exactly what he’s thinking. She snuggles up to him, ignoring his sound of protest and coos at him.

“ _Aw,_ don’t be jealous. I’m sure he went out with his buddies and whined to them for three hours, too.”

“You’re such an asshole, oh my god.”

“Would an asshole have sneaked your number into his phone while he was getting Wanda an ice-pack for her bony tush?” Natasha says slyly, and Bucky shoves her off of him in horror.

“You fucking _didn’t_ ,” he gapes, mortification snapping him wide-awake.

“Don’t be so dramatic, jeez,” Natasha rolls her eyes. “I’m helping you out, okay? You were bitching about not getting his number, so, I fixed it. I’m your fairy godmother.”

“You’re like Baba Yaga,” Bucky scowls before covering his face with a pillow. Going over her words, he frowns and lifts the pillow again to look at her. “Wait, I thought you just put my number in his phone?”

“I also put his number in your phone. See? I covered all the bases. You like baseball, that reference was great, I’m great.”

“You’re the fucking worst, and I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Natasha reaches over to tousle Bucky’s rats nest of hair. “You love me. But hey,” she checks her phone, “I’ve got to go over to Peggy’s. My Queen is hungover as hell.”

Bucky is surprised; Natasha has shown more obvious signs of caring for Peggy than she has for any other person she’s seen since Bucky’s known her.

“Really?" He squints at her "You gonna go play nursemaid for your girl? You _do_ have it bad,” Bucky whistles.

“Shut up,” Natasha deadpans, vaulting herself off of the bed just as elegantly as she got on it. “She’s really not feeling well, but she’s too stubborn to actually do anything besides lay by the toilet and moan.”

“Well, don’t get any on ya,” Bucky tells her, earning himself double middle fingers aimed his way as she leaves his room.

 

When she’s gone from the apartment, Bucky forces himself to get up and shower, to eat some toast and brush his teeth.

He very deliberately tries not to think of the new contact in his phone. After about three hours of lazing around the apartment, though, Bucky is bored as hell; when he gets bored, he’s been known to grab at any opportunity for entertainment.

Lying on the couch, he scrolls through his contacts and finds it—under _Captain America_ , no less, fucking Natasha—Steve’s number.

“This is so weird, what am I even doing?” Bucky mutters to himself before typing out a message.

_new message to: Captain America_

_ > so, Natasha is the worst friend in the world…it would seem she put our #s into each other’s phones. _

Then, feeling like throwing caution to the wind, Bucky types a follow-up message.

  _ > figured i’d text you, seeing as i was gonna ask you for it anyway ;p_

As soon as the messages have sent, though, Bucky is panicking. He wonders why no genius has come up with a way to un-send texts yet. This is possibly the worst decision he’s made in a while (and that includes the time he let Tony Stark throw him a birthday party last year) and Bucky is about to text Natasha with the full force of his anxiety when he gets a new message.

Two messages.

From Steve.

_new message! from: Captain America_

_CA: she terrifies me._

_CA: but I guess it works out, if I’m being honest, it probably would have taken me too long to ask you for yours. :)_

Bucky knows he’s grinning like an idiot at his phone, but he doesn’t care. He mentally takes back all the bad things he’s ever said about Natasha. Trying to think of what to say, Bucky remembers Natasha mentioning Steve’s hangover. He types and re-types a message four times before sending.

_ > i heard about the canceled practice, btw. that sucks. Went out with the bombshells last night, so i can sympathize. _

Steve’s reply comes not a minute later, and Bucky’s pretty sure this is the best decision he’s made in awhile.

_CA: You poor thing._

_CA: Yeah, the girls were looking pretty rough, but I’m not any better._

_CA: Had too many with some of my old hockey buddies last night, and it’s official: I’m old._

Bucky’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and he tries to imagine what Steve looks like with a hangover. He wonders if it’s wrong that he thinks it would probably be cute.

The next message he sends without even realizing what he’s said at the end.

_ > oh, boy do i know that feeling. when i remember the way i used to drink when i was in my early 20s, i actually cringe. _

_ > but hockey, huh? you’ve got an awful nice smile for a hockey player…no missing teeth or anything :p_

Steve replies almost instantly, and Bucky makes a mental note to go to the market so he can pick up ingredients for a nice dinner tonight; he owes Natasha.

_CA: Aw, jeez…this is kind of an in-person sorta story, but, the short version is that I was very briefly signed to the NHL._

_CA: Please don’t google it._

_CA: I was 18 and my face hadn’t caught up to my ears yet._

Bucky doesn’t know how to react. Ex-Army _and_ ex-NHL? Is this guy for real?

He desperately wants to get on Google right now, but something tells him it can wait. Instead, he smirks at his phone while typing out what he hopes is a witty response.

_ > oh, rogers, you realize you practically gave me a written invitation TO google the shit out of you, right?_

He doesn’t even exit out of the text app, that’s how quick Steve responds.

The words on Bucky’s phone screen leave his mouth dry and the back of his neck hot.

_CA: Google the shit out of me, huh? Why, Bucky Barnes, is that a euphemism?_

_CA: ;)_

“You little fucking _shit_ ,” Bucky breathes aloud, still staring at the messages. His face feels overly warm, all traces of his hangover momentarily disappeared.

Still a little dumbstruck with that rush of lust, Bucky notes that it is much, much less anxiety-inducing to flirt with Steve via text. He settles deeper into the couch cushions and unfurls the part of himself that’s been dormant since coming home, feels it stretching like a limb.

_ > depends on what the results of the google search yield ;) _

_ > but seriously, tell me more of your mysterious past. i feel like i should be better at small talk, sorry._

_ > but not really that sorry *shrug*_

Steve replies and the conversation takes off naturally from there, flowing easily between them on and off for the rest of the day, well into the evening.

 

When Natasha gets home from Peggy’s, she finds Bucky in the kitchen sending Steve a snapchat of their disturbingly well-stocked liquor cabinet with the caption _this is what it’s like living w a Russian_.

When she makes an entirely too-smug face and asks who Bucky is snapping, he doesn’t even blink, just takes a snap of her and adds a ton of poo emojis of varying sizes rotated to various angles.

 

The pummeling she gives him is worth the snap Steve sends back several minutes later of himself with the line _brb, using that as her contact picture._

 

(Sure enough, Steve’s screenshotted it.)

. .

Steve and Bucky text a lot over the next two weeks, and their messages range from ridiculously weird to actual deep conversation.

Bucky learns that Steve used to be underweight and sickly up to and even through part of high school, that Steve loves to draw; that he lost _both_ his parents, and that he’s never had a dog even though he wanted one, because he was afraid he’d end up being allergic. He learns that they might have gone to school together as kids had they just lived a few blocks nearer, and that Steve gave up his promising career as a goalie to be a soldier. He learns that Steve sometimes forgets that he’s not 95 pounds and 5’4 anymore, that he’s still clumsy like a 6-year old driving a car and trying to see over the wheel.

Steve learns that Bucky has siblings he hasn’t seen in a year, though it’s not for their lack of trying; he learns that Bucky was in choir and thinks about doing karaoke at the little dive bar down the street from his apartment every time he walks by it; he learns that Bucky played soccer growing up and has a knee that sometimes acts up a souvinir from a big game against a rival school. He learns that Bucky gets nightmares, and that it helps if someone texts him at three in the morning with stupid, silly things to distract him. Steve’s always been good at saying stupid, silly things; he’s never been so proud of that before.

They dance around the topic of meeting up (because Steve is too polite and Bucky is too gun-shy) until one day Steve casually suggests that Bucky should come to the Bombshell’s practice that coming Saturday. Bucky tries to wait a full minute before replying, and he has to try even harder not to add _oh, my god, FINALLY_ to his _yeah for sure :)_

.

That Saturday when Bucky goes with Natasha to practice, Steve is skating fast laps around the track wearing inline skates and a hockey helmet. He slows to a stop, grinning, when he comes around the turn and sees the two of them, early it seems.

“Didn’t know you warmed up before we got here, Cap,” Natasha says with a sly curl of lip.

Steve takes off his helmet with a dumb grin, rubbing a hand over his spectacularly mussed hair.

 _Why is that so hot?_ Bucky thinks desperately. _There is no way that should be hot._

“Gotta stay in shape if I wanna beat Buck when we go for our next run,” Steve says with another of his little-shit grins.

“You certainly do,” Natasha agrees, turning to smirk and widen her eyes at Bucky.

The rest of the Bombshells are arriving, bags slung over their shoulders, and Bucky wishes he'd come just a little earlier, so he could watch Steve skate a couple more laps.

 

“Alright, ladies, today we’re gonna do something a little different,” Steve says, once the skaters are all geared up and warmed up, circled around him in the center of the rink. “Today, as you may already have noticed, I am wearing pads. Can anyone guess why that might be?”

Steve’s coach-voice makes Bucky weak in the knees, and glad to be sitting on the bench.

Carol claps her hands together with a loud, reverberating crack. “Because you want us to try and knock you over, _sir_?” She guesses, eyes flashing with glee.

“Bingo,” confirms Steve, clearly trying hard not to grin outright. “Today, we’re gonna skate in pack formation, and I want each and every one of you to try as hard as you can to—and this is important— _legally_ knock me off my skates. You can do that, you can take out any skater who tries to get between our jammer and points.”

The entire team whoops, far too excited for Bucky’s liking at the prospect of putting hits on Steve, but he catches Steve’s eye and smiles anyway.

“Let’s get some music going, yeah? If I’m gonna take a beating, I want it to be to a soundtrack.” Steve enlists Peggy to do the honors, and she skates off the track and over to the booth where Tony had installed a very pricey sound system.

The rest of the team starts skating around the track while Steve snaps on his mouthguard and re-fastens his wristguards. When music fills the fieldhouse, jangly and fast-paced, Peggy flies back onto the track and Steve blows his whistle.

“Alright, Bombshells, hit me with your best shot!” He shouts, and then breaks into what Bucky can only describe as sprint-skating.

To the reeling melodies and rowdy group chants of a traditional English folk punk band, the Bombshells try their damnedest to get Steve off his skates. At first, it’s hard for them to catch him; he’s got long legs and near-superhuman stamina—as Bucky knows from their run.

Then, as the fiddles kick off and the drumbeat double-times, Maria Hill comes out of nowhere to check Steve in the shoulder so neatly and with such force that he actually stumbles out of the track’s boundary lines and nearly falls. Steve skates back behind the pack, like jammers do when they get knocked out of bounds, and the next song starts up as he makes his way back through the Bombshells.

The next trick the skaters pull is a three-person play that Bucky actually applauds; Natasha and Wanda do a bait-and-switch that leaves Steve open for Carol to turn abruptly and halt so suddenly right in front of Steve that he skates smack into her and goes down.

“ _Hell_ yes!” Carol pumps her fist and high fives Wanda and Natasha while Steve hops back to his feet.

“Don’t stop now,” Steve says, whizzing away once more, Bombshells in pursuit.

And everyone is clearly having so much _fun_ , Bucky can’t help trading joyous grins with Clint and Darcy, who have joined him on the benches to watch the spectacle.

He sees the huge, slightly-goofy smile on Steve’s face as he comes around the track again and again, as he falls, as he outmaneuvers the Bombshells and as he takes an elbow (Natasha’s) to the jaw.

Bucky sort of hates the way it makes his stomach do cartwheels, but he also kind of doesn’t.

.

By the time the last track on Peggy’s impressively rowdy playlist ends, Steve can barely blow the whistle to call and end to the pummeling session.

Somewhere in the midst of all the fierce skating, the rules had gone out the window, and it had become a free-for-all melee of ‘who can come up with the craziest way to knock Steve over.’

All the Bombshells head to the center of the track and collapse onto the ground, laughing and panting. Steve unstraps his helmet and removes it, gasping at the cool air against his sweaty head.

“Fuck,” he says to his exhausted, radiant team “That was completely insane. And _terrifying_. And impressive as hell. I can’t wait to see the bruises you all left on my delicate Irish skin.”

Some of the skaters catcall. Steve starts unstrapping his pads and tossing them into a neat heap by his feet, and the rest of the team does the same. He leads them in a twenty minute stretching routine before dismissing them for the day, and his muscles are deeply, pleasantly sore. It’s a feeling he’s been missing for quite a while.

“I’m totally disgusting,” states Peggy with authority, looking flushed and radiant as she's packing her gear into her gym bag. “It is imperative that I have a shower immediately.”

“I’d better come too,” Natasha says seriously, “Make sure you pass inspection.”

“You two are _so_ gross,” complains Sharon, though her eyes are dancing.

“Shower at her place,” Bucky tells Natasha with a frown, obviously not sure he can handle seeing more than he needs to of those two. “I can’t watch Netflix in peace with you two making noises all afternoon.”

“But my bathroom’s got a bigger shower,” Natasha says, like it’s not up for discussion.

Bucky groans. Steve is running high on endorphins, body still singing six-part harmonies from all the good chemicals released during the game. He sees his chance and takes it.

“Hey,” he says to Bucky, who looks way too good in his black joggers and plain undershirt. “Y’know, you could always come by my place and watch Netflix until the coast is clear.”

Bucky blinks a few times, looking like a deer in the headlights, but Kate Bishop, who has been eavesdropping, snorts loudly.

“Did you actually just ask Barnes to Netflix and chill?” She eyes Steve with far too much glee.

“Is that some sort of reference or something? I’m not getting it,” he says, widening his eyes and acting purposely obtuse. “I’m not exactly hip to all the hot slang.”

Kate cringes. “‘Hot slang’?” she says with a disbelieving twist of her mouth, “Seriously? Ugh. Who even _are_ you?”

“C’mon mini-hawk,” says Clint blithely, sidling up to sling an arm around Kate’s shoulder. “Let’s go home. I DVR-ed _Bad Girls Club_ , it’ll be totally on fire like a fleek.”

“I’m going to kill you,” she grumbles, but lets her hand slide down to give Clint’s ass a squeeze.

“They’re kind of perfect for each other,” Bucky marvels at the pair as they amble out the main doors. Then, he turns to Steve with a small smile. “And, uh, that sounds good. I could go for some Netflix and an afternoon without emotional scarring.”

Steve wants to do something utterly ridiculous and embarrassing, like punch the air in victory or sing _We Are The Champions_. Thankfully, he is still in control of himself, and does neither.

“Cool. My place is about a ten-minute walk from here, if you don’t mind walking?”

Bucky gives him a flat, bemused look. “Pal, I don’t mind anything as much as I mind getting an eyeful of my roommate and her girlfriend. Lead the way, Cap.”

And so, feeling like the universe is cheering him on, Steve does just that.

.

 The building Steve and Sam’s apartment is in is nice—not overly so, but definitely clean and pleasant.

Steve explains on the walk there that Sam (and Bucky was right, it _is_ Sam Wilson from the VA) is out for the day, so it’ll be just the two of them. And he says it in this voice like he wants to add _I hope that’s okay_. Like Bucky’d be upset about having to spend alone time with Steve Rogers.

He lets Steve lead the way up two flights of stairs, inwardly weeping and praising whatever deities exist for Steve’s ass in track pants yet again.

Steve fiddles with the key before opening the door, holding it wide and gesturing Bucky in first.

“Well, here it is. Make yourself at home, grab whatever you want from the fridge. I’m gonna go hop in the shower real quick.”

Bucky nods, eyeing the sofa in the living room.

“Mind if I get a head start on that Netflix you promised?” He asks with his most charming grin.

Steve, ridiculously eager and earnest as ever, falls all over himself to show Bucky where all the remotes are kept, the little fussy quirks of the systems.

“Alright, alright!” Bucky laughs, waving him away. “I think I can handle it. Go hurry up and take your shower so we can binge _Ghost Adventures_.”

Steve rolls his eyes and heads down the adjoining hall to the bathroom, and Bucky leans back a little so he can watch him go.

It totally, completely serves him right when Steve pulls his still-damp t-shirt off before even reaching the bathroom. He probably didn’t think Bucky would see—oh, _fuck_ , thinks Bucky with a fresh stab of lust.

He probably did it because he knew Bucky _would_ be looking. The little fucker.

Bucky jabs at the remote while scrolling through Netflix, because _God_ , Steve is a shit.  

 

When Steve returns ten or so-odd minutes later, he’s wearing sweats and a soft blue shirt that says _Boys & Girls Club Volunteer_ in big letters. Bucky covers his face with both hands and groans.

“You _would_ be a Boys  & Girls club volunteer. Captain Perfect over here,” he complains.

Steve collapses gracelessly onto the couch, not right beside Bucky, but not at the complete opposite end, either. There’s just enough space between them for Bucky to decide how this goes. It’s a very Steve thing to do, and it makes Bucky both want to kiss him and want to make fun of him for being such a gentleman.

“Hey, I’m far from perfect.” Steve says primly, bringing one foot up to rest on the coffee table. “Sometimes I see old ladies and I don’t help them across the street.”

Bucky flares his nostrils, giving Steve a little shove. “Such an ass,” he says, cursing himself for making it sound so fond. Steve looks at Bucky a few seconds longer than necessary before clearing his throat and turning back to the TV.

“So,” he says “Which episode is this? What do we got, poltergeists? Demons? Ghosts who just happen to say ‘Zak’ in every EVP reading they manage to record?”

Bucky is so, so glad that he decided to be brave and take Steve up on his offer to hang out.

“It’s the Transylvania one,” he says with a smirk. “Wait’ll you hear him to try pronouncing the names of places in Romanian. It’s like watching someone fall off a bike in slow motion.”

They end up watching five episodes, each one seeming to increase in hilarity, culminating in ten rewinds of the part of the ‘Mizpah Hotel’ episode where Zak Bagans demonstrates how high he can jump trying to knock over some wood.

“I can’t push these over,” Steve says through his choked laughter. He thumbs the rewind button for the billionth time.

On the screen, Zak Bagans is once more bringing his knees nearly to his chin in a series of ambitious jumps. Bucky and Steve lose it all over again, dissolving into breathless, hiccuping cackles.

When they finally settle down, wiping their eyes and clutching their sides, Steve lets out a sigh that contains the faint ghost of a giggle.

 

“Push ‘em over,” Bucky says in an almost-perfect deadpan, and sets them both off into hysterics one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, the Mizpah Hotel 'I can't push these over' thing was taken from a real occurrence. My cousin and I like to watch Ghost Adventures to laugh ourselves sick, and that episode actually had us in tears over his jumps. We were watching it live on U-Verse however many years ago and we rewound it probably twenty times. And imitated his jumps. I'm chortling hideously just thinking about it. 
> 
> ANYWAY~~~
> 
> I'm still debating on whether or not to add more chapters, but if I do, it'll probably end up being 10 instead of 8. 
> 
> The next chapter will contain the first bout, I swear on my quad skates <3 (I'm trying to figure out the most dynamic way to write a derby bout so readers can really visualize it.) 
> 
> Also, with the next chapter will come new side-ships! woo! Thank you for reading and showing love, as always. It makes me feel so warm and fuzzy. 
> 
>  
> 
> ** the songs Peggy puts on for the Steve-pummeling are definitely taken from real artists that I love. The first one being 'Trouble On Oxford Street' by the band Skinny Lister, which--um, yeah. Two words, people: Lorna Thomas. *swoon**


	6. Chapter 6

 

Steve is walking around with a dumb smile on his face most of the time now, thanks to Bucky’s texts and snaps.

He feels all squirmy with excitement, like when he was really young and anticipation was just as much fun as the thing being anticipated. Bucky is coming to the bout on Saturday night, a fact which has Sam teasing Steve like it’s the asshole roommate playoffs or something.

“No seriously,” Sam says feelingly when Steve tells him to knock it off. “I’m trying to get you pumped, like, a hype-man or whatever.”

“Asking me if I’ve started writing our initials in a heart on my notebook is not being a hype-man, last I checked.” Steve replies flatly.

“Hey, I’m happy for you! Both of you, actually. Barnes was living pretty rough for awhile after he came back from overseas and got out of the service.” Sam says, and Steve feels like an idiot for not putting it together that _of course_ Sam would know Bucky.

“Wait—why didn’t you mention that you knew him before?” He squints at Sam, who suddenly seems very interested in the book he’s been barely skimming for the last half-hour or so.

“Dude, you know I have a confidentiality agreement with anyone who comes to group sessions. Barnes and I aren’t really social outside of the VA,” he shrugs, and Steve sighs. Sam’s right, as usual.

“So you’ve known him for awhile, then?” Steve says, feeling a little stab of sorrow for Bucky; he’d told Steve a little of what had happened to him over there, and how coming home was an uphill struggle in the extreme.

“Mhm,” Sam puts his book down again, looking at Steve like he’s seeing something he hadn’t noticed before “He was one of the guys who don’t usually have high chances for happy endings. Man, I know you and me have seen some shit in our time, but that kid…it’s a miracle he’s not on the bottle or in the ground, Steve.”

And Steve wants to catch a cab to Bucky’s apartment right this second so he can hug him. He doesn’t like thinking about Bucky feeling like a ghost in his own city, having flashbacks with no one to help him through them.

“Jesus christ, Rogers,” Sam snorts, breaking the serious veil that has fallen over the conversation. “You should see your face right now, it’s like an Oscar-worthy sad puppy look. How are you making your eyes glisten like that?”

Steve kicks at Sam with on socked foot. “Shut up, asshole. I’m—it’s _sad_ , okay? Jeez. I, um. Like him. A lot.”

Sam gives Steve a warmer, softer smile. “I know you do, bro,” he says, patting Steve’s foot. “I think everyone who knows you does. It’s both genuinely heartwarming and amusing. Can’t it be both?”

“I’m seriously considering telling them not to let you in to the bout.”

“You wouldn’t dare. I have so many embarrassing pictures of you, Steve.” Sam threatens, and Steve clams up, because he suddenly remembers one specific picture of himself from his birthday.

. .

Bout day has Natasha holed up in her room for ‘mental preparation’ as she calls it, so Bucky is puttering around the apartment, tidying and trying to decide what he should even wear.

Is it like a thing? Should he try to look good? He thinks yes, but only because he’s determined not to look as raggedy as he did the first time Steve ever saw him. It’s become a personal mission, in fact.

Bucky’s pretty excited to actually watch the bout, though, too; Natasha had away games all summer, so he didn’t catch many. He loves watching his best friend kick ass on the track.

“Can you change my wheels?” Natasha calls from behind her closed bedroom door.

“Why can’t you do it?” Bucky shouts back, though he’s already getting up to grab her skate bag off the coat hook.

“Also would you mind cleaning them? Thanks,” she adds, choosing to ignore Bucky’s question altogether.

He rolls his eyes and grabs the necessary shit from under the cabinet, fills a big bowl with soapy water, and sits down at the kitchen table to get to work.

First, he removes all the nuts from the wheels and sets them aside, moving on to pop out the bearings easily with some leverage from the axles. The bearings get wiped down with special cleaner since they can’t get wet (once Bucky got water on them and Natasha actually threatened to kick him out if he didn’t buy her a new set) and the wheels get dropped into the bowl full of water.

The bright red wheels Natasha wants put on are harder, better for going lightning-fast on the polished wood floors of the rink at the Mutant Schoolgirls’ fieldhouse, where the bout is tonight. Bucky decides what the hell, he’ll be a good friend for once, and grabs the leather cleaner and conditioner from the front hall closet so he can wipe down the actual boot of the skates.

Natasha has a beautiful pair of completely custom quad skates, complete with toe-guards bearing the red mark from a black widow spider’s body. Her toe-stops are a lot smaller than most derby skaters; she’s not as concerned with stopping as she is with going seriously fast.

Once the bearings are snapped in place on all eight new wheels, Bucky is careful to tighten the bearings to the utmost precision—tight enough that they don’t shake on the axle, but loose enough so the wheels spin as fast as Natasha likes.

When he finishes de-grossifying the old wheels, Bucky dries them with a dishrag to put away, and Natasha comes slinking in to the kitchen. She slides into the chair next to Bucky wordlessly, grabbing one of the spiffed up skates to inspect it with a discerning eye.

“These look good, James. Maybe I will keep you after all,” she says thoughtfully, and Bucky scowls.

“Did you need any laundry done while I’m playing maid? Anything special you were gonna wear for the bout?” He drawls as sarcastically as he can manage.

“You know, come to think of it…”

“—Do your own damn laundry, ‘Tasha.” Bucky says, getting up to maybe make himself some lunch.

“Will you braid my hair? I can never do it as well as you, and I can’t ponytail under my helmet.” Natasha asks suddenly, careful not to sound at all interested in such a thing. Bucky knows that when she does this, it means she really wants whatever it is she’s asking for.

He really does love her, even though she’s evil and probably a spy and assassin.

“Let me get the brush and stuff,” he says, exasperatedly fond. Natasha looks just as blank, though something tiny has shifted so that Bucky can distinctly sense that she’s pleased.

. .

Bucky’s glad he wore his ratty leather jacket; for one, it’s cold as balls, and for another, the Mutant Schoolgirls’ fieldhouse is packed with at least two-hundred or so spectators, and Bucky isn’t sure he wants to deal with explaining his arm to anyone.

The fieldhouse walls are plastered with old posters and fliers for punk shows, and has a distinctly dive-y vibe despite the fact that it’s in a nice area and definitely costs a pretty penny to maintain. It’s intentionally shitty, which is the kind of hipsterish elitism that makes Bucky want to wrinkle his nose.

Then, he remembers that whoever owns this fieldhouse is probably very close to that Erik guy. He wouldn’t want to get on that nutcase’s bad side.

Natasha kisses Bucky on the cheek before disappearing into the away-team locker room to get geared up, and Bucky wanders around through the quickly filling venue to kill time before taking his seat.

Crowds still make Bucky edgy and anxious, though he’s grateful that it’s nowhere near as bad as it was a few years ago; still, he scans the place for potential escape routes and exits as he walks. It smells like greasy carnival food, and there are a couple of skaters for the Schoolgirls sitting at a table signing photos and talking to fans.

One’s clearly young—she’s got freckles on her little elfin nose and black cat ears on her helmet, and though she’s sitting down, Bucky can tell she’s absolutely tiny. She’s flushed and smiling while she chats to a young girl who has shyly asked for an autograph. The other Schoolgirl at the table is closer to Bucky’s age, though he’s always been shit at guessing women’s ages—they always look younger than they are. She’s got a lightning bolt painted on one smooth dark cheek, and since her helmet is off, Bucky can see her spiky white hair sticking up in artful peaks. Bucky wonders what positions they skate, what their derby names are. He supposes he’ll find out in a little while, and meanders back into the flow of pedestrians.

He doesn’t get very far before Tony Stark is popping out from behind a vending machine or something to clap Bucky on the shoulder. He tries not to flinch at he contact, and hopes his smile doesn’t look too much like a wince.

“Barnes! Buddy!” Tony exclaims brightly, which means he’s about to do something that will make Bucky dislike him even more. “Where are you sitting?”

“Uh,” Bucky’s eyes dart away, “I’m not sure?” he tries, hoping Tony will move on to another topic.

“Good. So you’re not attached to your seat. This is good news, Barnes, because I’ve got a seat for you, rink-side. What do you say?”

Bucky would like to say _no thank you_. He would also like to say _go away, Tony_.

Instead, he says “Oh, I—sure. Thanks.” Tony claps his hands together and grins with a few too many teeth for Bucky’s liking.

“Great! Let’s go there now. It’s a fantastic view, I swear. Blood and sweat flying around like confetti.” Bucky lets Tony jabber away as they head down the aisle of stairs to the floor seats and the track, feeling like he’s just been had.

.

He’s definitely been had.

As soon as he sees the people seated in Tony’s rink-side section, he puts his hands up, backing away.

“Oh, no. _No_ fuckin’ way, Stark. I’m not getting in the middle of whatever Erik Lehnsherr is doing to—wait, is that Eddie? Nope, don’t care. Fuck that, Tony.” He says adamantly.

Tony whines as only a thirty-seven year old billionaire genius can. “But _Barnes_ , Erik has to go be with his team when the bout actually starts. Please? Just sit with Eddie and Charles, I’ll owe you big time.”

Bucky has half a mind to just turn on his heel and leave without another word, when he sees the familiar shape of Steve heading his way and sporting a beaming smile. Bucky narrows his eyes at Tony, who is actually looking away and whistling.

“Bucky, _hey_!” Steve says, like Bucky is the person he’s been waiting to see all day. Bucky tries not to let it make him too dizzy, being the focus of all that bright joy.

“Heya Stevie,” he mumbles, the nickname slipping out before he can catch himself.

“Wait,” says Tony, looking from Bucky to Steve and back again. “Do you two know each other? Are you two in, as my dearly departed father would say, ‘cahoots’?”

“Shut up, Tony,” Steve and Bucky say at the same time, with matching eye-rolls to boot. Steve grins, and Bucky is helpless to do anything but grin back.

“You gonna stick around after the bout?” Steve asks, and Bucky hadn’t thought about it before, but he feels himself nodding yes.

“What am I missing here? I feel like I’m missing a crucial piece of information,” Tony complains, never comfortable being ignored.

“Cool.” Steve says (still ignoring Tony), his smile turning a little shy. “Maybe we could go to the after-thing together? Unless you’re not—I mean, it’s no pressure, you don’t—”

“No!” Bucky nearly shouts, horrified at the idea that Steve thinks there’s a chance he doesn’t want to. “I mean, _yes_. I want to. Together, with you. To the thing.”

Steve looks pleased, and the two of them stand there for half a moment too long just making dumb eyes at each other.

Tony clears his throat, and Steve straightens quickly. “Okay. Good. Well, uh, I’d better go give my team a pep-talk, so…I’ll come find you after?”

Bucky nods, trying to act like he’s not surrounded by imaginary cherry blossoms, like his eyes aren’t totally sparkling because Senpai has noticed him.

Steve walks away, across the track to the locker rooms, and Bucky can’t help watching him go. It’s his biggest weakness lately.

When he looks back to Tony, he has the urge to shove the smaller man hard so he’ll stop smirking and raising his eyebrows like a jerk.

“So you and Rogers, huh?” Tony says, all fake-casual. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s got a thing for bad boys, what with his radiating wholesomeness like a buffer, pigtail-less Sandra Dee.”

Bucky stares at him flatly before turning on his heel to go take his seat between Eddie Jarvis and Erik ‘I’ll eat your heart while your family watches’ Lehnsherr.

Luckily, Erik has to go be with his team just as Bucky’s sitting down, so he can breathe a sigh of relief watching as Erik power-walks on those ridiculous legs of his across the track. He turns to the blonde man next to him, cracking a smile.

“Eddie, you’re the last person I expected to see here! How are you?” Edwin Jarvis—Eddie—a friend of Tony’s and a distant cousin of Peggy and Sharon Carter, had worked for the highly classified British MI6 for ten years after university; he’d helped Bucky and Natasha out of some tight corners in Eastern Europe during Bucky’s time as an agent.

Eddie grins crookedly, pale eyes twinkling. “I’m doing well, mate, and yourself?”

Bucky grins back and does a so-so gesture with his hand. “So, what’s got you on Lehnsherr’s shit list? You two old buddies?”

Eddie looks horrified at the notion. “ _Jesus_ , no. That man is a terror. He, erm, was giving me quite an earful, wasn’t he? It would seem I unknowingly made a comment as to the striking appearance of one of the skaters on the Bombshells.”

Bucky winces with sympathy. “Oh, god. It was his daughter Wanda, wasn’t it? You unlucky sonofabitch.”

Eddie grimaces. “Yes, yes it was. And yes, yes I am. How was I to know the man had a bloody grown-up daughter? He’s barely older than me,” he laments, and Bucky pats him on the shoulder.

“It’s okay, pal. We’ll make sure your funeral is very tasteful,” Bucky says solemnly.

“Why don’t I remember you being this much of an arse when we worked together?” Eddie says, shaking his head and chuckling.

“Oh, I was. You probably didn’t notice because we always hung out with Tony around. His ass-capabilities outshine mine like a thousand suns.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Eddie agrees fervently, pulling a neat flask from somewhere inside his expensive jacket.

. .

Emceeing the bout are two young women who host a podcast, one of whom plays derby while the other is an NSO (non-skating official) back in Chicago. They’re talking about sponsors and local events now, getting all the legal stuff out of the way before the teams take their places on the track.

Steve looks across the track and sees Bucky talking animatedly with Eddie Jarvis and Charles Xavier. It makes him smile, Bucky sandwiched between the two Englishmen. Okay, _everything_ about Bucky makes him smile. He’s hopeless. But there’ll be plenty of time for that later, after the bout. Steve slips into the headspace of Captain Rogers, ready to lead and assess and motivate.

“And, that wraps up all the shit we’re being paid to say,” drawls the taller, silver-haired emcee, tossing the scripted sheets of paper aside. “Now, without further adieu and blah blah, let’s meet our two teams for tonight’s bout! Thalia, are you ready to do the honors?”

“I was born ready, Jim,” says the shorter, blue-haired announcer. “Skating for Manhattan tonight we have, on their own turf, the girls who smoke radioactive cigarettes in the bathroom, the Mutant Schoolgirls!”

The fans who’ve come to see the Schoolgirls go nuts, and Steve grins just because he loves anyone who loves sports enough to make noise. He watches with interest as the Schoolgirls skate out in a pack wearing uniforms that cleverly mimic Catholic school dress, but are clearly far better suited to actually gameplay.

“Aaaand leading the team, your pivot and Head Girl, the self-professed diamond bitch ‘cus she’s so cold and hard, number 6 the Ice Queen!” projects the emcee, and the skater at the head of the pack pumps her fist in the air to the chorus of _Cold as Ice_ by Foreigner.

She’s thin, with sharp cheekbones and a haughty smile, with platinum hair so white it glows under the bright lights above. Steve is momentarily taken aback when he recognizes her, from the newspaper. She’s Emma Frost, a highly successful defense lawyer who made a name for herself representing (and winning for) women accused of killing their husbands or boyfriends. Steve had no idea she was a rollergirl, but it makes him like her even more.

“Next up we have naughty number 9, the skater of all trades—she can jam! Block! Hit! Put your hands in the air for Myztique!”

Raven, of Darkholme Tattoo, executes a flawless transition to skate backwards, lifting one knee up without even wobbling. Her bright fire-orange hair is in pigtails tied with ribbons, and Steve notices that Charles Xavier cheers extra loudly for her. Raven’s exposed arms and legs are covered in tattoos, all in blue-scale, ink the color of wode. Steve knows she’s done most of her own tattoos herself, which just makes them all the more striking and impressive.

“From Hell’s Kitchen but looking like heaven, one of the jammers for the Schoolgirls tonight—number 7, Hell’s Angel!”

 _Angel of the Morning_ plays, and a stunning younger woman with cream-coffee skin, a thick braid of dark hair and heavy black makeup ringed around her eyes does an incredibly athletic series of pirouettes before clasping her hands as if praying, rolling her huge eyes heavenward.

“Boys, don’t even try it. Number 44 will strike you dead with a glance, give it up for Thunder Thighs!”

A tall, dark woman with a lightning bolt drawn on one cheek lifts her leg up nearly straight in the air as _Thunderstruck_ by AC/DC plays. Steve thinks he ought to keep an eye on her during the bout; she looks like she could do some damage.

Steve is getting antsier with each skater named, anxious for his team to get out there and show what they’re made of.

“They call her Typhoid Marie because contact with this girl is a killer! Number 24, Typhoid Marie!”

—A petite blonde with doe eyes and cute, twee flash tattoos.

“She’s tall, she’s statuesque, she’s hotter than an Arizona desert, and she gets knocked down but she gets up again every. single. time. Your alternating Pivot and hometown heroine, number 1, Phoenix De Milo!”

—a redhead who probably stands taller than Steve off skates, with skin like marble and well-defined arm muscles.

“Last but not least on the roster tonight, sweet 16 with claws! The uncatchable jammer Wrecks Kitten!”

—the tiniest girl Steve’s seen yet, beaming with unbridled joy and wearing a black helmet with little cat ears on top. She can’t be much older than Wanda.

“And tonight, folks, we’re lucky enough to have a visiting team with some serious street cred, the toughest broads on skates, the brawling babes from Brooklyn, make some noise for the Bombshells!”

And Steve watches, heart swelling with pride, as his team skates out onto the track to be introduced one by one.

He’s making sure to keep an eye on Sharon tonight—she finally got the all-clear from the physician to play—as he’s been told she likes to pull tricks that get her in the penalty box or on crutches. Steve is in coach-mode, focused and ready to be what his team needs.

This does not mean, however, that he doesn’t notice the dumbstruck expression on Sam’s face when he sees Maria Hill skate backwards to _Maria_ by Blondie.

.

The first half of the bout has Bucky turning his head from left to right and back again so fast he thinks he might give himself whiplash.

The Schoolgirls’ main jammer, Wrecks Kitten, is really fucking fast. Sneaky, too. She weaves in and out of the pack with stealth and manages to score 16 points in the first jam.

Not to be outdone, Wanda comes out lead jammer for the second, calling it off after she’s made 5 passes around, earning the Bombshells a none-too-shabby 20 up on the digital scoreboard. Steve knows Wanda is good, and maybe even faster than Wrecks Kitten, but he swaps her out after a few jams to alternate between Natasha and Peggy, who manage to score a tidy sum each.

Carol is honestly a dream player, Steve thinks with a rush of pride. She’s so tall that the only player on the other team who can get a hit on her or even attempt to block her is number 1, but even she can only block. Carol is as steady on her skates as they come.

There are a couple of plays that get reviewed—it happens in every sport, Steve’s well aware—still, he can’t help scowling and throwing his hands up when the Schoolgirls are found in favor.

By halftime, everyone is sweaty and ready to take a breather.There’s some youth league of dancers who take the floor and do some pretty creative stuff while the teams group up in their locker rooms to grab water and clean off scrapes.

“They’re ahead of us,” Steve tells the Bombshells, trying to recapture the way he used to talk to his unit back in the Army; that mix of authority and calm and ‘we can do this, here’s how.’ “They clearly know how to utilize each and every one of their skaters, but hell, so do we. I came up with a couple of ideas during the first half, so let’s go over the different ways to take out the different jammers.”

.

“I’ll never get over how bloody brilliant they all are,” beams Charles Xavier, who, like everyone else, has barely spoken a word during the first half of the bout.

Bucky can appreciate people who know how to shut up when a high-intensity sport is being played, and he finds himself returning Charles’ smile, even though he’s clearly insane.

( _Obviously; who else would be married to Erik Lehnsherr?_ Bucky thinks, aghast.)

“Yeah.” Bucky agrees, scanning the rows and aisles behind them to see if Eddie’d got their beers yet. “Who’re you here for, just your fella?”

Charles laughs, and the color it brings to his cheeks makes him even prettier. “My _fella_ , oh I like that. Precious. And no, actually, I’ve come to cheer on my little sister. She’s the gorgeous one with all the blue ink. Sometimes I can’t believe that’s my little blonde-haired Raven out there, looking like a warrior queen.” Charles smiles fondly, and Bucky goggles at him.

“Wait, Raven Darkholme is your _little_ sister? Isn’t she like 27?” he asks, mystified. Charles huffs and rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Yes, well, I happen to be 34, thank you very much. Curse this baby face of mine,” he adds with a little shake of his fist.

“Oh my god, I thought you were still in college or something. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.” Bucky can’t help it, though, he’s unable to stop chuckling.

“It’s quite alright,” Charles sighs, smiling like he’s in on the joke at least. “I’m actually a professor of genetics at Cornell. You wouldn’t believe how often I get mistaken for a student, and by my own coworkers, no less.” He laughs, then fixes Bucky with a conspiratorial smile. “And who are you here for? As if I even need to ask.”

Bucky groans and covers his face with one hand. “That obvious, huh?”

Charles nods solemnly, though his eyes are twinkling. “I’m afraid so. Not to worry, though, dear. I daresay he’s just as obvious, if not more.”

“Who is? Rogers, with his crush on Barnes? Or vise versa?” Asks Eddie, hunkering back down into his seat and passing two locally brewed beers to Charles and Bucky.

“Yes!” Gushes Charles, sporting a ridiculous mustache of beer foam but somehow managing to pull it off. “Isn’t it rather sweet?”

Eddie gives Bucky a look that says he’ll be in for merciless teasing later. “Oh, definitely. The sweetest. James had little hearts in his eyes when they spoke earlier.”

“Why is everyone I know terrible?” Bucky says to no one in particular.

Luckily, before the two horrible British men can say anything else, the buzzers signal the end of halftime.

.

It’s even faster this time, the hits more effective and the points harder won.

Sharon sits in the penalty box for illegally elbowing Emma Frost in the face, Kate takes a toe-stop to the knee in a three-person fall (though she insists she’s fine to skate), and Maria gets into a shouting match with Erik Lehnsherr that Steve is almost hesitant to break up.

Steve wants the Bombshells to win, but more than that, he wants to make sure that they’re playing as well as they can, _together_. Working as an optimally efficient machine. Halfway through the second period, they miraculously start to do just that.

Wanda uses her figure skating prowess to artfully dodge hits and beat Wrecks Kitten to lead jammer several times in a row. Kate and Sharon execute a near-perfect whip to catapult Wanda to the front of the pack not once but twice. Peggy and Maria do a turn-and-stop block that takes care of most of the Schoolgirls for long enough to let Natasha speed by to grab 4 points that bring the Bombshells into a twenty point lead.

Leads don’t mean shit in derby, though, Steve knows. Just like in hockey, someone can come up from rock bottom in the crunch. Never assume your lead is safe.

And, almost like a prophesy, that comes back to haunt Steve when in the final jam, the Schoolgirls jammer manages to make one single pass around for points that wins them the game by those 4 points. It’s a really, _really_ close thing, and Steve likes to win, but he’s more concerned with how his team played.

Tonight, they played pretty damn well, aside from some unnecessary penalties and stupid mistakes.

Steve shakes the other coach, Erik Lehnsherr’s, hand and congratulates him.

Unfortunately, some of the Schoolgirls aren’t so good at being gracious winners; he can see that Emma Frost has said something to Wanda that’s got Maria, Carol, and Sharon eyeing her like a pack of angry dogs. Before Steve can go check it out, though, Lehnsherr is stalking over and putting his arm around Wanda while speaking very sharply to Emma.

That’s…huh. From where Steve’s standing, it looks like Lehnsherr just gave one of his own players a dressing down for being unsportsmanlike. Funny, Steve hadn’t pegged Lehnsherr for the type to stick up for a rival team’s player.

“So, you gonna go find James or what?” Says Natasha, suddenly next to Steve like she’s been there the whole time.

Somehow, within the fifteen minutes since skating away to the locker rooms, Natasha has showered, reapplied makeup, and done her hair differently.

“I—yeah, actually.” Steve says, thrown off momentarily by the use of Bucky’s proper name. “Do you know where he’s at?”

Natasha smiles coyly up at him, shouldering her gear bag. “Last I checked, he texted me to say he was waiting out back. Crowds get to be too much for him sometimes,” she adds with a knowing look.

Steve wants to smack himself for not even thinking of the possibility. Not even bothering to grab his jacket from the locker room or do any schmoozing with sponsors, he heads down the utility hallway to the janitor’s exit.

.

Bucky’s weighing the pros and cons of having a cigarette while he waits for Steve to see his text when Steve himself pokes his head out the door.

“Nat said I’d find you out here,” he explains, stepping fully outside.

Bucky’s exhausted, just from watching the bout and maintaining pleasantness in conversation and being around all those other people. It’s not that Bucky doesn’t like Eddie or Charles or even Tony, it’s just so hard to be ‘on’ for long stretches of time. Sometimes, he thinks too many people give off too many different energies, and that’s why it drains him so much. He feels shitty, because he promised Steve they’d go to the bar together, but all Bucky wants is to crawl into his pajamas and watch a movie.

“Hey,” Steve says, resting his back against the brick wall next to Bucky “I hope this isn’t me being too presumptuous, but, uh.” He stops, looks away and then back. Bucky raises one eyebrow, not following. Steve continues, ears going a little red with the cold. “I know big groups of people can be—overwhelming sometimes. It happens to me, too, still. Y’know. After.”

Bucky is flooded with a sense of relief so strong that it makes him close his eyes for a second.

“And, believe me, I would love nothing more than to get drinks with you and fend off our obnoxious friends at the bar,” Steve says, looking earnest and hopeful “But I’d be just as happy to go hang out at your place or mine and watch more _Ghost Adventures_. Or,” he adds quickly, “You can just go home and recharge. I know alone time is the only thing that helps sometimes.”

Bucky’s dizzy with how much he doesn’t deserve Steve Rogers in any capacity. Nobody could possibly be this understanding, could they? ( _Or this hot, or funny, or interesting…_ )

“Seriously?” he asks, voice small and uncertain in his own ears. “You…you wouldn’t be mad?”

Steve makes a face. “What? No! Why would I be mad? You have to take care of yourself, Buck.”

Bucky’s stomach gives a little flutter, and he’s just a little bit further gone on Steve than he already was.

“Would you…would you want to come to my place, really? ‘Tasha will be out til late, and we could, I dunno, watch something stupid and—”

“—Get food? Because I’m starving.” Steve grins, nose pink and cheeks flushed from the cold. “I’ll pay for the food if you let me at some of those snooty hipster beers I saw in that snap you sent of your fridge yesterday.”

Bucky can hardly believe it.

“So…seriously? I didn’t just send you running for the hills with my fucking issues?” he asks, glancing skeptically at Steve.

“You didn’t send me running for the hills when you told me that you don’t like Elvis, you’d pretty much have to do something unspeakably horrible right in front of my face to get me to do it now,” Steve says easily, like he’s washing his hands of the topic.

Bucky texts Steve his address and Steve agrees to be there in an hour, after he’s made sure the Bombshells are all accounted for and the sponsors have been well and truly schmoozed.

Bucky takes the bus back home, slumping far into his seat and smiling because maybe there are more good compromises than he thought.

. .

Steve takes a lot of shit for begging off the after-party, but after an hour or so, he’s _finally_ on his bike and almost to Bucky and Natasha’s place back in Brooklyn. He stops at a bodega to pick some extra beer and fires off a quick text asking Bucky if he’s still up for hanging out, and what kind of food he’s in the mood for, not expecting the reply he gets.

_BB: you could literally bring me anything and i’d eat it._

_BB: that might be a euphemism ;)_

Steve stares at the text for several minutes, cheeks hot. He types out his response with clumsy thumbs.

_ > I can’t believe you say I’m the little shit._

_ > I’m blushing in front of the tiny old man behind the register @ the bodega, hope you’re happy. _

He pays for the six-pack with cash, not making eye contact with the cashier at all, making a speedy exit as his phone buzzes again in his pocket.

_BB: i’d rather u were blushing in front of me, rogers ;)_

_BB: hurry up, would ya?_

Steve picks the first noodle place he sees and orders two to-go boxes of something—he can’t be sure what, he’s barely paying attention—and tries not to go too far over the speed limit the rest of the way to Bucky’s.

It’s a close thing.

.

Steve rings the buzzer and Bucky feels as nervous as a 14-year old on a first date. But, he reasons, it’s _Steve_.

The guy who’s been able to draw Bucky out of his little cave more in the last month than almost anyone in the time since he was discharged.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have time to dwell on his angst, because his apartment is suddenly full of the smell of noodles and the the general sense of comfort Steve always brings with him.

“I got you, uh,” Steve looks mildly embarrassed “Something with noodles? I don’t know, your texts were—they were very distracting!” he laughs, hiding his face in his hands. “God, I’m so hopeless, Sam is right.”

And just like that, Bucky is at ease again. He’s not the only one who feels like a total dork.

“S’okay,” Bucky hears himself saying, feels the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I guess it’s pretty flattering that you may have ordered me something gross because I drove you to distraction.”

Steve laughs, and they go about plating the food and opening beers to take into the living room.

Bucky’s phone is vibrating like mad in his pocket, probably Natasha giving him all kinds of shit, but he ignores it in favor of the surprisingly decent food Steve got.

They eat in silence, only the noise of the TV for a bit. When they finish, Steve volunteers to rinse the dishes and toss the trash, to which Bucky’s reply is a snort and eye-roll and a muttered “Boy scout.” under his breath.

When Steve comes back and sits down next to Bucky, he looks all earnest, like he’s nervous about something.

“What’s up?” Bucky says, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Steve takes a swig of his second beer and sets it down again. He takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself.

“Okay,” he says, and Bucky wants to tell him to just spit it out. “So. Yeah, um, I guess I’ll just put it all out there, okay? Right. I, uh, I really like you. _Jesus_ , that’s lame. What I mean is, I’m _interested_ in you, if I haven’t made that painfully obvious. I just wanted to tell you, y’know, in case you didn’t, um, know.”

Steve’s cheeks are flushed and he’s looking up at Bucky all shy and awkward and perfect.

There’s a moment where Bucky feels his brain short-circuiting, because yeah, he was pretty sure that Steve was interested but it’s a whole other ballgame to hear it spoken so (adorably) plainly.

Bucky’s face splits into a grin he can’t seem to fight. “Oh, well that’s a relief,” he says, pretending to examine his cuticles before glancing at Steve. “Because it would have been really awkward if I’d been adding all those stupid winky faces to all my texts to you and you _weren’t_ interested.”

Steve’s smile is the best thing Bucky’s ever seen, probably.

“Does that mean I can tell you to get your ass over here so I can cuddle you?”

Bucky’s face hurts from smiling so much, but he has to say something before they do—whatever it is they’re doing. It’s not fair to Steve if he doesn’t give him warning.

“You know I’m still a mess, Stevie.” he says a little sadly, looking at his lap. “I don’t—is it okay if we take it really slow for a bit? I’m…I like you, too. A lot. I’m just not…”

“Not ready to dive headfirst into it,” Steve finishes for him, and of course he fucking would be understanding about this, too. “We’ll take it at your pace, Buck. Whatever you want.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees, feeling lightheaded. “So come cuddle me, you stupid punk.”

Steve does, and it doesn’t surprise Bucky in the least that Steve knows exactly how to hold him so he feels safe but not trapped.

They don’t do anything else, not yet, just hold hands and cuddle and trade goofy, sappy smiles.

 

The two of them fall asleep on the couch, Steve spooned behind Bucky, one arm slung loose around him, and it’s the best sleep Bucky’s had in ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Hehhehehehh and they still haven't kissed. 
> 
> Notice that I increased the number of chapters to 10! 
> 
> I'm exhausted after this update, but clearly there is a lot of plot left in this story. So. 
> 
> This week I'm going to try to write a lot because my best friend is coming from Finland to visit for a week next Saturday, and then I'll write approximately nothing. 
> 
> I love each and every one of you <3


	7. Chapter 7

 

Steve wakes up to Bucky’s hair in his nose and Natasha looming over him with one eyebrow arched knowingly.

“You two geriatrics missed everything,” she says evenly, plopping herself down in one of the armchairs.

“Fuck off, ‘Tasha,” Bucky grumbles, voice thick with sleep.

Steve tries to look apologetic from over the top of Bucky’s head. “I’d get up, but my arm is trapped,” he says, in full honesty. Bucky’s got his fingers threaded with Steve’s so his arm will stay wrapped around Bucky. Their legs are all tangled together, too.

“Okay, fine, you can go back to sleep. For an hour. Then, I’m waking you both up in the manner of my choosing.” She gets up again, padding away to her bedroom.

.

Steve wakes up the second time to the smell of breakfast food and Bucky’s ice cold feet pressed against his.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re like a fuckin’ furnace?” Bucky’s voice is a low rumble, still heavy with sleep.

Steve smiles into Bucky’s hair. “Never so poetically, no,” he answers, tightening his grip on Bucky’s waist slightly. “But I didn’t hear you complaining last night, so.”

Bucky starts to laugh, but then shivers, burrowing back into Steve.

“‘Tasha likes to turn the heat off at night because she’s nuts. She _says_ it’s because she’s thrifty.” He starts wriggling and shifting, directing Steve’s body around until Steve is on his back and Bucky can curl up along his side. “I don't like being cold.”

Steve remembers Bucky mentioning an op that went wrong somewhere in Eastern Europe during winter. There had been no one at his extraction point, so he’d had to wait it out in a dilapidated abandoned farmhouse. The nights were long and brutally cold, and Bucky’d been injured—

“Of course you don’t,” Steve murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head.

Natasha slinks back into the living room to loom over them again, this time with a spatula in hand.

“It’s nine in the morning, and I have been waiting patiently to tell you about last night. _Up_ ,” she commands, arms folded over her chest.

Steve marvels at the fact that even sporting impressive bedhead and dressed in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and slouchy cable-knit socks, Natasha manages to look more authoritative than all of Steve’s Army superiors combined.

“I made breakfast. Get. _Up_.” She whacks Bucky on the behind with her spatula, who in turn cusses and says something in grumbled Russian.

Even so, Bucky and Steve disentangle themselves and do as they’re told, stopping to trade shy, soft smiles before shuffling into the kitchen.

.

“Okay, let’s see…” Natasha is sitting across from Bucky and Steve, plates of pancakes and bacon and eggs piled high in front of all three of them. “You first, I think.” She points to Steve.

“Um,” he says, reaching for his glass of milk.

Bucky has to stop staring at Steve, but he’s so damned adorable in the morning. It makes Bucky wonder what Steve would look like after a night of good sex—

“Sharon walked in on Maria and Sam Wilson making out in the supply closet at the bar. They stumbled back to your place together, so I figured I’d warn you to call before going home.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, I kinda saw that one coming. Well, on his end, anyway. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Natasha sips her coffee, black and sugared to death, looking amused.

“Erik Lehnsherr punched Eddie Jarvis in the face.” She says, seemingly enjoying both Bucky and Steve’s gasps.

“Wait— _what_ happened?” Steve asks, eyebrows approaching hairline.

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “That stupid fuck,” he shakes his head, then looks at Natasha “Tell me he didn’t do what I think he did.”

“Oh, he definitely did. To be fair, though, she was highly willing. I guess Wanda likes ‘em a little older.” Natasha smirks.

Steve looks even more confused, and Bucky wants to kiss that little frown off his mouth.

“Erik Lehnsherr is Wanda’s dad,” Bucky explains, waving a hand when Steve opens his mouth to ask how. “I guess he had her real young. I know, it threw me off, too. But, _Jesus_ , Eddie, what was he thinking?”

“Who knows why men do the things they do?” Natasha says, adopting a sage tone. “So, like I said, Erik found them together and starts shouting in German, shoving Eddie. Broke his nose, I think. The track medic was there, you know Bruce, right? Anyway, he patched it up.”

Steve looks stunned. Bucky swigs his coffee and thinks that it is definitely way too early for this shit.

“Erik Lehnsherr has twins,” Steve says suddenly, eyes wide.

“Come again?” Bucky squints at him.

“I—that time I went out for drinks with my old hockey teammates,” Steve explains hurriedly “I met the new kid on the Avengers, Pietro Maximoff. He’s young, real young, and Russian. We got to talking, and, turns out, Wanda is his twin sister.”

“Wanda has a twin?” Natasha tilts her head curiously.

“You were on the Avengers?!” Bucky nearly chokes.

Steve rolls his eyes. “I _told_ you I was signed to the NHL. Remember? The googling thing?”

Bucky does remember, or, he would have, eventually. He’s been so caught up in everything about Steve, he forgot to actually make good on that threat of googling Steve’s former career. Bucky goggles at Steve, feeling like he’s been missing this crucial piece of information.

“I…oh my god. Does that mean you know Logan James? I had his rookie card when I was a kid, holy _shit_.”

“Unfortunately,” Steve laughs, shaking his head. “I’ll introduce you so you can see what an old asshole he is now.”

Bucky feels lightheaded. “I think I’d probably die.”

Then, with the noise of a thousand pianos dropping from fifth floor windows, Bucky has an epiphany.

“You were the kid goalie that quit in a blaze of glory back in 2002!”

Steve looks embarrassed, but pleased. Natasha looks like she wants to say something, but settles for slyly eyeing Steve from behind her coffee cup.

“Guilty,” Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But since you know now, you definitely don’t have to google my official headshot.”

“That is where you are utterly mistaken,” sings Natasha, whipping out her phone and tapping hurriedly at the screen. Bucky runs a hand nervously through his hair, remembering that beaming smile on the Avengers’ new recruit after being the first round draft pick.

“God, you were _so_ —”

“— _Cute_ ,” Natasha interrupts, turning her phone so Bucky can see.

Sure enough, Steve was cute. He was a little thinner, with shorter hair that stuck up in the front, and the same pink-cheeked smile he has now. His ears were definitely more, ahem, prominent, but still. A total dish, as ever.

Bucky turns to gape at the real Steve, who is sheepishly buttering a slice of toast.

“You’ve always been hot!” Bucky says accusingly.

Steve goes utterly scarlet, and Natasha actually tips her head back and laughs, the sound full and rich.

Under the table, though, Steve’s hand finds Bucky’s and threads flesh with metal, giving it a squeeze.

.

 

So, they’re a thing now, Steve and Bucky. Bucky and Steve.

They go running together on Wednesday mornings, and with Sam on Fridays and Natasha on Mondays (Natasha, unsurprisingly, is the best at the sabotage-running game).

Bucky is indulging Steve, letting him think he’s teaching Bucky how to skate. (Bucky just likes having an extra excuse to cling to Steve, so sue him.)

There’s still a little niggling fear at the back of Bucky’s mind, a vague sense of dread that accompanies waiting for other shoes to drop, but he tries to tamp it down as best he can. He hasn’t had an episode in months. His therapist says he’s doing better than ever.

...But back to Steve and Bucky.

They’re moving at a snail’s pace in terms of physical stuff, but when one sleeps over, they share a bed with the other, and about two weeks in when they’re watching something dumb on TV, Steve glances over at Bucky all shy and fond. Asks if he can kiss him.

Like Bucky was ever gonna say no to that question.

So, he rolls his eyes and says “What’re you waiting for, an official summons?”

But even for all his bluster and sass, he bites his lip and feels a little warm when Steve pulls him in so they’re almost nose to nose, breathing the same air.

“You’re such a goddamn jerk,” Steve murmurs, leaning in just a tiny, little bit so the space between them ceases to exist.

And it happens in the living room, on the same couch where they watched _Ghost Adventures_ , the same couch that Steve, awkward and sweet as hell, had been just a little bit braver than Bucky. The couch they’d fallen asleep on that same night, spooned close and more comfortable than two men their size had any right to be on a regular couch.

The kiss is soft, just a little catch of Steve’s lips against Bucky’s, but the sweetness of it makes Bucky ache. Steve brings a hand up to cup Bucky’s jaw, brushes his thumb across Bucky’s cheek. His lips are warm and perfect, and Bucky smiles against them.

Steve pulls back to grin, unabashedly fond, and then they’re trading slow, syrupy kisses for the better part of an hour, until Natasha comes home with Peggy and both women whistle and applaud.

Bucky can’t even be too annoyed; he doesn’t remember the last time he felt this stupidly, completely happy.

He thinks he might be dangerously close to falling in love when Steve tells Peggy and Natasha to shut up if they’re gonna watch; he’s tryin’ to kiss his fella and he doesn’t need any distractions from femme fatales 1 and 2.

. .

It’s Halloween weekend, as all the Bombshells and support staff keep reminding Steve at their emergency Friday night practice.

There’s a charity bout being put on tomorrow night, Mutant Schoolgirls vs. the Bombshells again, and a big afterparty at one of Stark’s clubs down the street.

 

“Tony’s Halloween parties are pretty much the worst,” Bucky says during the fifteen minute break Steve calls for halfway through practice.

He speaks between bites of a huge, crisp apple. The juice has made Bucky’s lips all plump and wet and red, the same way they look after Steve’s been kissing him.

“Hey.” Bucky snaps his fingers just inches away from Steve’s face, startling him out of his dazed drooling. “Were you even listening to me?”

Steve considers lying, but shrugs and says “I tried, but all I keep thinking is how bad I wanna kiss you right now.”

Bucky tilts his head, eyes going heavy-lidded and dark, mouth curling up at the corners.

“So why don’t you?” He asks with a sly little smirk and a raised eyebrow.

They’re mostly alone, with the exception of Clint, who is currently fussing with some program on his laptop on the other side of the fieldhouse, so Steve is inclined to oblige Bucky. He pulls the other man close, one hand fisted loosely in the material of his hoodie.

He feels Bucky smiling into the kiss, but they’re startled apart by hoots and hollers from near the entrance. Steve whips his head around to see several of his former teammates looking around the fieldhouse, clearly impressed.

“Rogers, you dog!” Logan gives a feral grin, stubbing his cigar out in what Steve vehemently hopes was not Clint’s coffee cup.

“Logan, you asshole,” Steve shouts back, surprised and pleased.

Along with Logan are Pietro Maximoff, Thor Odinsson, and Peter Quill.

“We have come to see your coaching abilities,” Thor booms, clapping his hands together loudly enough that both Steve and Bucky flinch. “And young Maximoff has done nothing but boast of his sister’s agility and grace on skates. Is this your sweetheart?” He nods at Bucky, who is staring like his eyes might fall out of his head.

Steve gives Bucky a gentle nudge, sliding an arm around his waist. “Yeah, this is Bucky. I told you he was a dime, didn’t I?” Steve pecks Bucky on the cheek, which seems to bring him back from his starstruck daze. “Bucky Barnes, meet Thor, Logan, Peter, and Pietro.”

“Damn, Rogers, you sure aimed high.” Peter says with an easy smile as he reaches to shake Bucky’s left hand, charming as ever. Steve notices with a stab of pride in his friend that Peter doesn’t even look at the prosthetic.

“Anyone who can put up with this little shit for more’n an hour has gotta be some kind of saint. Nice to meet’cha kid,” Logan sticks out his hand, and Bucky’s eyes shine with a small glimmer of the child he used to be, the little boy who once had Logan’s rookie card. To his credit, though, Bucky plays it relatively cool.

He snorts, shaking Logan’s hand and tossing a glance at Steve. “Likewise. Before I met Steve, I thought _I_ was a little shit. Did he tell you how we met?”

“Aw, Buck, don’t tell that story,” Steve whines, but secretly he loves it.

He loves the way Bucky tells it, the little nuances and bits of personal flair he adds to the dialogue. Steve’s former teammates are just as charmed by Bucky as Steve always is, they listen and laugh at the right moments as Bucky regales them with the tale of the now-infamous morning race. Just as he’s getting to the part where they each realized who the other was, the girls come back from their smoke/text/rehydration break.

“We’ve got some guests for the second half of practice tonight, if nobody objects,” Steve calls, and Wanda’s face lights up bright as anything when she sees her brother.

“Petya!” She shrieks, skating over to crash into Pietro’s arms.

“Vanka!” He wraps her tightly in a hug, lifting her, skates and all.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming!” Wanda swats at Pietro’s shoulder, grinning happily.

“It is surprise!” He laughs, tweaking her nose like only a brother can. “Are you being surprised?”

Steve, Bucky, and the other hockey players exchange amused smiles.

“Holy shit, Thor?” Darcy Lewis drops her clipboard and throws her arms in the air when she sees the giant Norwegian.

What Steve is not expecting is for Thor to rush over and give her a bone crushing hug.

“Darcy Lewis! You are a sight for painful eyes!” He says merrily, and Steve is very confused.

“You mean _sore_ eyes, you big golden lug. _Aah_! I can’t believe you’re here! Why are you here?”

Darcy and Thor are practically dancing with their barely-contained excitement.

“I have come to watch the practicing of the sport of roller derby. And to reunite with my former teammate Steven Rogers!” Thor explains proudly, and Darcy smacks herself on the forehead.

“Oh my _god_ , that’s right! I totally forgot that you guys were on the team together. How is Jane? Is she back from London yet?”

“Alas, my lady Jane still works night and day to perfect her theorem. She sends her love when she can, though I suspect she keeps in closer contact with you than I.”

Darcy glances away with a coy twist of red lips. “Guilty. I just miss you guys! How’s the ice goon life treating you?”

She looks back at the rest of the Bombshells, at Bucky and Steve, who are all standing around looking utterly lost.

“Darcy is my fair Jane’s cousin and former intern. She makes the most wonderful coffee!” Thor exclaims with one fist clenched dramatically.

Dr. Jane Foster, Thor’s fiancee. Steve shakes his head because his world is really _that_ small.

 

 

Everyone says hello to everyone (Peter Quill exchanges some very heated sass with Carol Danvers), and eventually Steve gets them moving back onto the track to finish running drills.

Bucky elbows him though, nodding discreetly to Pietro Maximoff, who is literally agape watching Darcy reapply lipstick using her phone’s front-facing camera as a mirror.

“Think she’ll go for him?” Bucky asks, and Steve shrugs.

“Dunno. She’s a wild card. Think Danvers’ll punch Quill in the face before tonight is over?”

“Either that, or they’ll end up in the supply closet like Maria and Sam.”

 

After practice, Steve spies Pietro out of the corner of his eye, staring longingly after Darcy as she and Clint clean up the track and put away the spare equipment.

He also catches Carol slipping Peter Quill her phone number, punching him fairly hard in the shoulder right after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, so this was a short one. 
> 
> I wrote a mega-update but I decided to break it into two unequal parts, so I can post again later tonight. I just wanted to get something up here for all of you lovelies who have bookmarked and commented and given me so much love. 
> 
> Yay! 
> 
> Sadly, next chapter will have some sad in it. Boo...
> 
> But it will end happy! Yay! <3


	8. Chapter 8

 

The Bombshells win the Halloween bout, and the bout raises a nice chunk of change for the charity organization Stark chose, so now everyone is getting shitfaced at the massive afterparty. In costumes.

Bucky is in the middle of a group conversation with Raven Darkholme, a fairly intoxicated Charles Xavier, Kate Bishop, and Darcy Lewis. He’s fairly certain that they’re talking about some highly suggestive things, but he can’t say he’s been paying too close of attention; not when Steve is a little ways away, grinning and talking with Tony and Pepper, dressed as—

—well, there’s a backstory to Steve’s costume.

Actually, the Bombshells (and Steve and Bucky) all came dressed in one big, dumb group costume. It was all Natasha’s idea, so Bucky blames her for the fact that he can’t stop staring at his boyfriend. (It still makes him smile like a sap when he thinks about the fact that Steve is his boyfriend.)

So, Natasha gets this gleam in her eye one day after practice, and then she announces that the Bombshells are going as Pink Ladies and T-Birds, so everyone had better take their pick of which they wanted to be. Then, some wiseass (Bucky couldn’t help himself; he never can) had piped up “Is Cap gonna be Sandy, then?” And Steve’s outraged squawk was lost under the roar of approval from the entire team.

Helping Steve come up with a gender-swapped Sandy costume was fun and all, but when Natasha and Peggy cornered Bucky with a black leather jacket and a jar of pomade, he hadn’t been laughing.

Now, God help him, Bucky is here at the party dressed as Danny fuckin’ Zuko, cuffed jeans and greaser-hair and all.

Natasha, despite her unforgivable nature, does make a stunning Frenchie (pink hair that Bucky’s not convinced is a wig), and Peggy has everyone doing double-takes in her T-Bird getup. (Bucky isn’t even mad that she looks better with a pompadour than he does.)

But back to Steve’s costume. He’d put on these nerdy, pleated khakis that he _actually already owned_ , and a piously crisp white button-down with a buttery yellow cardigan over it. Giggling in front of the bathroom mirror, he’d combed his hair into a horrible side-part while Bucky shook his head and swore revenge on Natasha.

Then, after the party had been going on for an hour or so, Steve told Bucky and Sam and everybody that he’s gotta go to the bathroom. So, he went. Whatever. But when he came back, he literally got himself a round of applause from the Bombshells, the Mutant Schoolgirls, _and_ his hockey buddies who somehow showed up.

The goody-two-shoes Sandy!Steve was gone, and Bucky’d had to pick his jaw up off the floor as he watched Steve saunter back across the room, grinning like the little shit he is. In the tightest black t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, black jeans, and hair slicked back in a messier version of his normal style, Steve managed to transform himself into bad!Sandy, end-of-the-movie Sandy.

And now, Bucky can’t stop staring at him, so it’s really all Natasha’s fault.

.

“I think we’re all reasonably drunk now, yes?” Tony has a microphone, though he probably shouldn’t.

Either way, everyone raises their cup or their bottle or their can and cheers in agreement.

The two teams get along surprisingly well off the track, mingling like normal people and comparing bruises. (The only exception is the ever-brooding Erik, who’s been skulking around in the shadows dressed as Cesare from _the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari_. Steve had to bite his tongue to keep from casually asking whether Erik chose the costume because of its similarity to his usual wardrobe of black turtlenecks, or because the film is old and strange and German.)

“So,” Tony says, getting that look on his face that Steve normally associates with trouble, “I think that now is the time for dancing.”

The music gets louder, and people start to migrate onto the dance floor. Steve is pretty sure he sees Sharon being led by the hand into the fray by the strikingly-tall skater from the Schoolgirls, Jean Grey aka Phoenix De Milo.

Steve looks over at Bucky, who is currently leaning against a wall like a bonafide hoodlum while he chats to Maria and Sam (who came ,dressed with startling accuracy, as the two leads from the 1980s movie _Breakin’_ ).

Bucky catches Steve staring and gives him a shrug and a crooked little grin as if to say _why not?_

“Go get your man, Rogers,” Natasha shouts over the music as Peggy sweeps her away to dance.

Steve weaves his way through the people until he can lean against the wall next to Bucky, slide up close to press their shoulders together.

“Well, would you look at that,” Bucky drawls, accent becoming a little heavier. “What’s a good girl like you doin’ in a place like this, dressed like that?”

Steve looks away, tries to school his expression into an innocent one.

“Oh, I dunno,” he widens his eyes and blinks at Bucky, “I thought this was the church social.”

Bucky tips his head back and laughs, loud and real. Steve follows the exposed line of his throat with his eyes, though he’d rather it were with his mouth. When Bucky’s head lolls back down, he’s giving Steve those eyes again, the dreamy, sinful eyes he does sometimes when he’s a little tipsy or just feeling extra saucy.

“Think you could spare one dance for a boy from the wrong side of the tracks?” He asks, still playing along.

Steve bites his lip, looks Bucky up and down before bumping his shoulder gently.

“Only if you promise not to try anything funny,” he says with wide-eyed mock-seriousness. “I’m a good girl, after all.”

 

But the way he lets Bucky grind their bodies together, the way he lets Bucky back him into a corner and press him against the wall and lick into his mouth—that definitely says otherwise.

.

 

 

Everyone is starting to stumble home, or out to cabs, and Bucky feels like his blood is on fire.

Dancing hot and dirty with Steve, watching him socialize from across a crowded room, holding his hand while they talk to their friends together; it’s enough to make Bucky feel half-crazy with want.

He thinks that tonight might be the night he asks for more than kissing and fully-clothed lower-halves—he’s been drinking water since midnight to sober up just in case it is.

They’re saying their goodbyes, thanking Tony and Pepper for hosting, making sure their friends all have safe means of travel back home before heading home themselves.

When they pile into the cab Steve calls, Bucky can’t seem to keep his hands to himself. Neither of them can. It’s like being a teenager again, only better.

“Nat and Pegs went back to your place,” Steve says in-between kisses. “And Sam and Maria are at hers…”

“Your place, then?” Bucky smiles against Steve’s mouth, slides a hand up the inside of Steve’s thigh.

“Obviously,” he grins, catching Bucky’s lip with his teeth.

.

Tonight _would_ have been the night, Bucky thinks with a stab of regret as he climbs the steps up to his own apartment.

They’d been all hot and heavy; both Bucky and Steve were more than halfway undressed with hands crammed down each other’s pants when Bucky’s phone had started ringing on the bedside table. Since Natasha only calls Bucky when it’s serious, dead-body in the bathroom-type business, he had offered Steve a groaned apology before answering.

“James—I, ah, need you to come home. Please.” Natasha’s voice had sounded so odd, so unlike her, that Bucky’d known immediately what had happened.

“I’ll be there as fast as I can, _solnyshka_.” He’d promised, hanging up with a heavy sigh.

Bucky then had to explain to Steve that Natasha and Peggy had broken up, and that Natasha was on the verge of, if not already in, serious tears.

“I’ll drive you,” Steve had insisted, and they’d sped off on his bike.

 

Bucky’s lying awake now, at four in the morning, wishing selfishly that it could have gone differently.

He could be curled up next to Steve right now…

But, he’s not the asshole who leaves his friends to pick up the pieces on their own. He never has been.

So, instead of his boyfriend, Bucky’s got an exhausted Natasha curled up against his side, finally too tired to cry anymore. She didn’t give him a ton of information, just that she and Peggy had fought about moving in together, and things were said (and shouted), and then Peggy had left.

Before she walked out the door, though, apparently Peggy told Natasha that she really was as cold as people said.

Bucky’s angry as hell about that, though he can see where Peggy’s coming from, too. She’s clearly stung by Natasha’s flat-out refusal to consider living together, and people always say things they don’t mean when their feelings are hurt.

But Bucky _knows_ Natasha, knows who she really is, on the inside and underneath the many layers of heavy armor. She’s sweet and compassionate, and she feels things ten times harder than everyone else does. It’s the whole damn reason she became so aloof, so hard to read.

Sighing, Bucky resolves to try and get a little bit of sleep.

There’ll be time for all that when the sun comes up.

. . .

 

Practice for the Bombshells is…tense for the next couple of weeks.

Natasha and Peggy are barely speaking to each other, and of course most of the team members have, unfortunately, chosen sides.

Steve is ready to put them both on the bench until they can work it out like adults.

From what Bucky's told him, it sounds like things were pretty serious between Peggy and Natasha, but when Peggy mentioned taking it a step further, Natasha got spooked and, well, now here they all were. Steve wonders if there’s some sort of protocol for this that he should be following, but as it is, he has to keep his nose out of his team’s personal business until further notice.

—Or, he _would_ do that, if Peggy and Natasha weren’t currently shouting at each other on the track, in the middle of practice.

“Why did you have to make it like that? It was never like that!”

“Oh, come off it. It’s an apartment, not a bloody _engagement ring_ , you daft cow!”

“You’re always so superior—”

“—And _you’re_ always so damn untouchable!”

Steve blows his whistle loud enough that his ears are ringing afterwards. Everyone stops what they’re doing, eyes wide and bodies frozen in place.

“Alright, ladies, since you decided to bring your personal shit onto my track, wasting team practice time, you get to set in the penalty box until I decide you’re allowed to come out.”

Natasha and Peggy both open their mouths to protest, but Steve cuts them off harshly.

“I don’t want to hear a word from either of you, not one goddamn word, am I clear?" He doesn't wait for them to answer. "Now, follow me to your new home for the next, oh, hour and a half.”

The two of them scowl, but do as they’re told, letting Steve lead them to his modest office.

Once they’re inside, he lets the military-strict act drop a little.

“Look, I didn’t want to have to resort to this, but…I think you two have some things you’re not finished talking out. I’ll come back to check on you in in hour."

“An _hour!?_ ” They growl in unison, but Steve quickly shuts and locks the door from the outside.

He realizes, in hindsight, that this might not have been his best idea ever.

He hopes that they won’t break anything, or kill each other.

.

The rest of practice goes smoothly, though in the back of his mind, Steve can’t help worrying about the two spitfires he’s got barricaded in his office.

When it’s time to stretch out, he puts Carol in charge so he can go assess any damage, practically running across the fieldhouse and down the little hallway where the supply rooms and offices are.

Tentatively, he knocks once against the closed door.

There’s noise like things shuffling, maybe kleenex being pulled from the tissue box?

He knocks again. This time, Natasha replies loudly from behind the door.

“Go away, Steve.”

He figures he should at least try to see where it all stands. “Is everything OK—?”

There’s a sigh on the other side of the door, a watery laugh and a sniffle.

“ _Yes_. Go _away_ , Steve.” Natasha says again.

 

Steve wonders, as he watches the rest of the team go home for the day, how long those two are planning on staying in his office.

The keys to his motorcycle and his apartment are in there.

.

Since he at least has his phone, Steve texts Bucky and Sam, plays stupid games, and has the sandwich place from a few streets over deliver him some lunch while he waits.

After two more hours (at which point Steve is seriously considering just walking home) Peggy and Natasha finally emerge.

 _And_ , it does not manage to escape Steve’s notice, they are holding hands.

“Thanks for calling us out on our bullshit, Cap,” Natasha says evenly, and Steve thinks that that is the closest he’ll ever get to a sincere apology from her.

Peggy holds out his keyring, dangling it from one red-tipped finger.

“Go tell Barnes he’d better buy some noise-canceling headphones,” she says primly, though Steve can tell she’s trying not to beam.

Come to think of it, now that he takes a good look at both of them…

“ _Aw_ , you guys,” he groans. “You didn’t have make-up sex in my office.”

“We sure didn’t,” Natasha deadpans. Then, she turns to Peggy, eyes softer than Steve’s ever seen them. “Now, come on, _Ritochka_. You need to tell that landlord of yours you want out of your lease early.”

When they’re gone, Steve sends Bucky a text.

_ > looks like the storm has passed…heads up, though, I think you might be getting a new roommate…_

Bucky’s reply:

_BB: i’m coming over, sam’ll let me in if i get there before u._

Steve smiles the whole way home, feeling very much like a crisis has been averted.

 

(When he finds Bucky half-naked in his bed, he smiles even more, taking care to lock the door behind him before pouncing.)

. . 

 

For the next month and a half, things go on as they do.

Everything is good until, inevitably, something happens.

It’s a snowy December night, and Bucky is at Steve’s place, curled up against him on the couch while they watch old movies on television, feeling warm and content and safe.

Until it all goes wrong.

There’s a loud sound outside, like a car backfiring, or a gunshot, and Bucky is suddenly back in that freezing basement, tied to that chair while enemy operatives attach electrodes to the neural receptors in his bionic arm.

All he can think is _no,_ is _fight_ , is _‘I killed them all, didn’t I?’_

And they had, hadn’t they? When Natasha had finally come for him, come with reinforcements and extra ammunition, they’d blown the whole damn place to kingdom come. Put two neat bullets into the brains of every fucker who kept Bucky strapped to that table, tied to that chair.

It’s his greatest fear, that somehow one was overlooked. That they would come for him.

He goes on autopilot, the way he used to back when he was in the field. When he was a valuable asset to the United States government.

When he comes out of the red, terror-soaked field of flashback, Bucky is breathing in quick, shallow little gasps and his left hand is gripping the arm of the sofa so tight he can hear threads snapping.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he rasps, coming back to himself, checking the parameters. Assessing the damage. “Fucking fuck, _shit,_ Steve did I hurt—?”

“No, _no_ , Buck, it’s fine. You’re fine.” Steve’s voice is gentle and soothing like cool water on burning skin, but Bucky isn’t having it.

He struggles to sit up straighter, stomach twisting hot and sick when he sees the marks he’s left on Steve.

Scratches, angry and red on one arm, made by the nails of Bucky’s right hand. Deep, purpling finger marks dotting the other, courtesy of the bionic left. And then, almost like a grotesque centerpiece, a black and blue ring around Steve’s neck where Bucky’d choked him. Bucky feels like he might throw up.

He can’t take the kindness or the understanding that Steve will offer him; he doesn’t deserve it. Not for this.

“Shit, I’m sorry. So fucking sorry, Steve. I can’t—” and he’s up and off the couch, hurrying out the door and down the stairs with steadily blurring vision.

 

He realizes, after walking the first two blocks, that he’s forgotten his jacket at Steve’s. It’s mid-December, and he can’t even feel a thing.

 

When he gets home, Natasha is in the living room. With just one look at him, she knows. She understands.

“Oh, James,” she sighs, patting her lap. “Come.”

And he does.

Bucky lays his head down in her lap while she pets his hair, murmurs to him softly in Russian.

Natasha, in her infinite wisdom and understanding of human nature, does not ask him what happened. She does not say anything when he cries.  

. .

“Dude,” Sam points his chopsticks at Steve from across the table. “I can _see_ you overthinking this, and I’ll tell you for the billionth time: do _not_.”

Steve uses the unagi roll he’s just shoved into his mouth as an excuse not to respond right away.

Truth is, he’s been a wreck since Bucky ran off two nights ago. Steve had thought Bucky would _know_ that flashbacks were a given, that Steve would understand. Wouldn’t be angry or afraid. Instead, Bucky had clearly panicked when he’d seen the bruises and scratches, the marks he’d left on Steve when he wasn’t himself and Steve was trying to restrain him.

Steve swallows, reaching for his beer to buy a little more time.

“He scared himself, Steve.” Sam continues, still gesturing with his utensils. “Now _you_ know and _I_ know that it takes a lot more than a semi-violent flashback and a couple of minor contusions to scare you away, but Barnes is terrified that he hurt you.”

Steve sighs, putting his head in his hands. “I know.” He says, rubbing at his eyes. “ _God_ , of course I know. It’s just, now he won’t answer my texts or calls, and…”

“…You just wanna tell him that you’re okay, and ask him if he still likes you.” Sam chuckles, earning a glare from Steve. “It’s fine, man, I get it. Maria and I fight all the time.”

Steve rolls his eyes at that. “You and Maria _bicker_. And you both are weirdly into it,” he points out. “That’s not the same thing at all.”

And it’s true; ever since they hooked up at the party after that first bout, Maria Hill and Sam Wilson have been that amazingly intuitive couple, able to balance each other out with near-acrobatic skill. It turns out, one of the things they both like is small, banter-heavy arguments about non-issues. They’re completely enchanting and wholly irritating to be around. Steve couldn’t be more pleased for them.

“Nah, I guess not.” Sam concedes, smiling no doubt at the thought of his partner in crime. “But you gotta give Barnes some space right now. Let him come back to you. Which he will.”

Steve nods, but only so Sam will think he’s won. Inwardly, Steve’s not so sure.

He’s paralyzed by the thought that Bucky’s spooked for good. He has to tell himself over and over not to text Natasha and ask how Bucky’s doing.

“You could always text Nat, ask her how he’s doing on the down low,” Sam suggests, and Steve could faint with the relief.

Because that, from Sam, in Steve’s book, is like divine permission.

. .

_New message To: Black Widow_

_ > hey…how is he?_

That wasn’t too much, right? Steve is about to start panicking over sending the message, but Natasha replies.

BW: he’s walking around looking like a kicked puppy, cap.

BW: what exactly happened? i can sort of guess, but…

Steve trips over himself trying to type out the reply as quick as he wants to. It’s just—maybe if he tells Natasha, she’ll be able to tell Bucky that he didn’t do anything wrong.

_ > We were hanging out, and there was a loud noise outside that triggered him into a pretty bad flashback. I had to restrain him because he choked me for a second. _

_ > When he came to, he took one look at the bruises on me and freaked out. Left without his jacket. _

_ > Natasha…I’m a mess right now. He needs to know that he didn’t hurt me, not more than I can handle. I just want to help. _

 

_BW: They don’t make ‘em like you anymore, Rogers._

_BW: but you know how stubborn he can be. He thinks he’s going to relapse like that all the time, and he’s afraid he’ll snap on you again._

_BW: I’m trying to get him to see it for what it was, though, OK? :/_

Steve wants to chuck his phone at the wall. Instead, he replies to Natasha’s texts and shuts his phone off.

 

_ > Tell him that when I first got back, I broke Sam’s arm during a bad one. _

_ > Tell him that I miss his stupid ass. Tell him to come back to me._

. .

 

A week goes by, and Bucky isn’t sure how to bridge the gap he’s accidentally (on purpose) put between himself and Steve.

Because, okay, yeah; after thinking about it, talking with his therapist about it, and being given looks all week by Natasha, Bucky realizes that he _may_ have jumped the gun. He should have called Steve the very next day, should have come over; should have done _something_ , instead of moping around and hating himself and having the world’s most pathetic pity party alone in the apartment with a bottle of vodka.

But now, it’s been a week. More than a week, actually. Eight days. Eight days without hearing Steve’s voice or seeing his big dumb face. Without being able to smell his laundry-and-clean skin-smell. Without kissing Steve.

Punching the pillow in frustration, Bucky tries to parse out the words to say to fix it. Steve’s texted him a handful of times, and the texts have made Bucky’s heart squeeze in his worthless chest to read them, but still he’s stayed silent.

Part of him thinks he’ll never really feel like he deserves Steve, someone as good and bright and passionately kind as Steve.

The other part of him says _fuck_ that, because he’s selfish already when it comes to Steve Rogers, and Bucky had decided after that first kiss that he’d be damned if he let Steve slip through his fingers like so much sand.

 _Suck it up, Sergeant_ , Bucky grits through his teeth to himself, reaching for his phone where it lays hidden in the drawer of his bedside table.

How hard can it be, to ask someone to love you even though you’re broken and shaky?

_New message To: Captain America_

_ > heya Stevie _

_ > …i really fuckin miss you, pal. _

He doesn’t have to wait long for a reply, and his stomach is twisted up tight as a wrung-out towel as he opens the messages.

_CA: I got an easy fix for ya then, jerk._

_CA: Come see me._

Bucky’s out of bed like a shot, pulling a shirt on and about to ransack his dresser for a fresh pair of pants when he realizes he hasn’t even texted Steve back yet.

_ > I’ll be there in 15, don’t move a muscle. _

_ > And don’t you dare laugh, but I gotta know…still my fella?_

 

And he can’t bring himself to leave Steve’s next message unopened, much as he’d like to, much as he’s nervous to look.

Half-walking, half-jogging down the sidewalk towards Steve’s apartment, Bucky feels his face split with the force of his grin. He thinks of the words over and over as he treks the distance between their apartments, as he climbs the stairs up to knock on Steve's door.

 

_CA: as if you could get rid of me that easily <3_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ritochka is a Russian diminutive for Margarita, which is what Peggy's actual name (Margaret) would be in Russian!
> 
> *Breakin' is an AMAZING movie about breakdancing in the early 80s, featuring a lot of leotards and half-shirts on dudes. A+. The acting is *phenomenal**
> 
>  
> 
> WELL~~~
> 
> Here we are, chapter 8! 2 more to go!
> 
> I promised there would be another update today, and I did not lie! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this angsty-fluff portion of the fic. I'll try my very best to update this coming week, but if I don't, it is not because I've put this fic on the back burner, it's just because my very best friend is visiting from Finland and I haven't seen her face to face in FIVE. STINKING. YEARS. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and leaving love <3 You're all wonderful!


	9. Chapter 9

 

When Bucky rings the buzzer, Steve doesn’t jump.

He’s not caught off-guard because he’s been waiting in the seat by the window, waiting for that familiar knit cap and black jacket to come into view.

Instead, Steve tries to will his body to be calm. (Which is hard, seeing as how his entire self is singing out _glory hallelujah_ , because Bucky hasn’t left him for good.)

When he opens the door, Steve has to dig his neatly-clipped nails into the meat of his palm so as not to reach, to grab. Bucky’s nose is red with the cold, lips slightly wind-chapped. He looks up at Steve with uncertainty flickering across his expression, and Steve’s not having any of that.

“Get in here, jerk.” He scolds lightly, closing the door behind Bucky. “You look like some kind of Dickensian orphan in those fingerless gloves, by the way.”

“Shut up,” Bucky replies automatically, though without heat.

“So,” Steve rocks back on his heels, trying to hold his eagerness at bay.

“So,” Bucky tilts his head, sinks his perfect little teeth into the tender flesh of his lower lip. “Any idea where a guy could stick his frozen hands to thaw ‘em around here?”

Steve scrunches his face, laughing against his will. “Aw, Buck.”

“What!” Bucky squawks, widening his eyes. “I’m serious, Stevie. I think I might lose my right arm, too.”

Steve rolls his eyes heavily at that, reaching for Bucky’s hand to drag him down the hall to the bedroom.

“Serve you right for wearing those ridiculous non-gloves in the middle of winter,” he says with a cheeky grin that Bucky can’t see.

 

 

Steve’s already in sweats, but he tosses a pair at Bucky and the two of them bundle up under the covers, bodies fitting together like a matching set.

“Missed you, Buck.” Steve mumbles into the chilled skin of Bucky’s neck.

He reaches down to grab both Bucky’s hands and place them against the natural-burning fire of his own abdomen. Steve tries not to wince too much at the icy touch.

“Oh, sweet _Christ_ , that’s good,” Bucky groans, shivering and sliding his palms to rest on Steve’s lower back.

“Like a fuckin’ furnace, so I’m told.” Steve is practically giddy with the relief of having Bucky so near after more than a week apart.

After a shaky little exhale, Bucky nudges Steve’s nose with his own, just enough to fit their mouths together. Steve can feel himself practically melting into the scratch of stubble against his cheek, the whisper of metal and flesh climbing steadily up his back, the warm press of Bucky’s lips.

Steve realizes, with a pleasant dipping sensation in his stomach, that this is the first kiss Bucky has initiated.

“You still haven’t showed me your tattoo,” Bucky mumbles against Steve’s mouth, to which Steve can only reply with a grin and a nip at the full, tender flesh of Bucky’s bottom lip.

“Tattoos, with an s,” Steve corrects, already reaching for the hem of his shirt. Sitting up a little, Steve pulls the faded tee over his head and chucks it away to land somewhere on the floor. In the low light of the bedside table lamp, he holds his arms out, palms up.

“Alright, here you go,” he sighs like it’s a big hassle, though it turns into more of a choked gasp when Bucky reaches forward to tentatively trace the outline of Steve’s chest piece with one metal fingertip.

Licking his lips out of habit, Bucky makes a prettier picture than Steve could ever hope to draw.

So of course, when he asks in that rough-edged voice of his, “Tell me about ‘em?” Steve has no choice, really.

.

Steve Rogers without a shirt on.

Bucky makes a mental note to file that image under ‘holy of holies’, unable to stop himself from running his hands over the ink that covers a good amount of Steve’s torso.

There’s the military star on his chest, framed by angular wings, dead-center and shaded so expertly in greyscale that it looks like a natural part of Steve.

“Got it after my first tour,” Steve explains, ducking his head. “Some of my guys decided we should all get ink to—to remember.”

Then, there’s the list of names on Steve’s right side, small and tasteful, names and ranks and birth/death dates of men and a few women who Steve had fought alongside. Had captained. Below the list and done like a metal placard, in clear, bold typeface, _all gave some; some gave all_.

Bucky is unsurprised to feel that old familiar sting behind his eyes when Steve gives him the briefest explanation of that one, though he doesn’t even need to. It’s clearly a memorial, permanent and living on a guy who sometimes seems more monument than man.

After that, Steve shows him the little black-line wings on his ankles, the Coney Island skyline silhouetted against a summer sunset that wraps around Steve’s left bicep high enough for a t-shirt sleeve to cover.

The startlingly pale skin of Steve's right inner bicep is home to a stunning portrait of a woman Bucky doesn’t need to be told is Steve’s mother.

It’s photo-real, Sarah Rogers when she was just twenty-two, smiling as brightly as her son still does. It’s in black and white, save for tints in color like an old hand-tinted photograph. A little auburn for her hair, pink for her cheeks, rose for her lips, and arresting blue in her eyes. The portrait is bordered by a hyper-realistic rosary, and a weave of daisies and wildflowers. Below, it says in gentle script, _And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me._

“Kinda cliched for an Irish-American person, I know,” Steve chuckles when Bucky reads it aloud. “But ‘Danny Boy’ was Ma’s favorite song. This is the one Raven did, as you can see, it’s pretty damn incredible.”

Bucky shakes his head vehemently, wiping stubbornly at his eyes. “It’s not cliched,” he asserts, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to hold Steve so tight his bones crack. “It’s—you’re probably the only guy who could make an ex-assassin cry over body art, Rogers.”

And the weak attempt at levity does its job; Steve laughs as he sniffles, rolling his eyes and reaching for Bucky.

Bucky slaps the back of Steve’s hand lightly, though, shooing him away.

“Ah-ah,” he wags a finger. “I promised I’d tell you about one of mine, way-back when, didn’t I?”

“ _Hmm_ , now that you mention it…”

“Well, prepare to be dazzled,” Bucky drawls, voice laden so heavily with sarcasm it ought to sink like a stone.

As he takes his own shirt off, Bucky is struck by a realization of sorts.

He hasn’t shown his body to anyone; not in bed, anyways. Not since the arm. He knows he has scars all over, some hidden by ink and others not, and that the skin at the place where the arm’s neurotransmitters are wired to his nerves is by no means smooth.

But…he also knows that Steve deserves more than a half-clothed fuck against a wall. Steve Rogers is the kind of guy that you take all of your clothes off for, lay him back on the pillows and marvel at him.

Bucky _knows_ this, and he accepts it.

Where his body is ruined, Steve’s a sculpture, a monument to the twin miracles of science and sheer stubbornness. He also figures that, well, they’re already in bed now, that’s half the hard part already done, right? If this goes where Bucky knows ( _thinks, hopes_ ) it’s going, then he’ll have to get over all that bullshit real quick.

Balling his shirt up to give his shaking hands something to do, Bucky tries to act natural.

“Your turn to do the asking,” he says, voice more confident than he feels. And Steve is like a little kid, all breathless excitement, marveling at the black line work on Bucky’s right arm, at the cyrillic block letters over Bucky’s heart like a stalwart prison guard.

When he sees the back piece, he actually sucks in a breath, and Bucky can’t help feeling a little bit proud.

“This is—this is,” Steve seems at a loss for words, running his fingers along the spidery branches of the trees, circling the outline of the sun. “ _Wow_ , Buck.” And somehow, with his back to Steve, it’s easier.

The words come tumbling out as they have not since before Bucky was a soldier at all.

“I got it after the shit that went down in Siberia. It’s…it’s what I saw when we finally made it out of the forest to our extraction point.” He huffs something that might be a laugh or might not. “Well, it’s what I remember seeing, anyhow. Took quite a few hits to the ‘ol noggin before that mission was done. Lost a lot of blood by the end, too.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, and in his voice, in this low light, it sounds like a prayer.

Though it’s hard, and frankly terrifying, Bucky turns around to look Steve in the eye. He’s got to do this, before he loses his nerve.

“Stevie, I…remember what I said when we first—? I’m broken. I have nightmares, and—and I hurt people I love on accident, and sometimes I can’t seem to make myself be in the world—wait, what?” Bucky sees the smile bloom on Steve’s face, prettier than any flower, and he doesn’t quite get it.

“You love me?” Steve asks, beaming so wide and so bright that it makes Bucky’s cheeks flush.

Bucky stumbles over his tongue trying to backtrack, because _fuck_ , did he say that?

“I, um, no? Maybe? Hey, what about watching some TV?”

Steve’s smile turns mischievous, and he climbs into Bucky’s lap, straddling him. Shirtless. It suddenly feels like it’s a million degrees.

“Uh-uh, no way. You can’t act all cool now, not after you just tried to tell me you love me in the most low-key way possible.” Steve is holding Bucky’s face gently in his big hands, and Bucky feels his heart hammering away inside his ribcage like it never has before.

He swallows, glancing at Steve’s red-red lips before meeting his eyes. “I can’t?”

Steve quirks one brow, looking unbearably smug. “That what you want?” He asks, smirk pulling at the side of his mouth. He brushes a thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone, like an afterthought.

“Fuckin’ _impossible_ , Rogers,” Bucky growls under his breath, deciding to hell with it all, getting a hand around the back of Steve’s neck to haul him in for a kiss.

The two of them wrestle for a bit, struggling to gain the upper hand, laughing into each other’s mouths and digging fingers into ticklish spots. “Admit it, Buck, you _love_ me,” Steve taunts, flipping them over so Bucky’s beneath him.

Squirming and trying to get out from under Steve, Bucky wrinkles his nose and turns his face away when Steve swoops in for a kiss.

“ _Ugh_ , do _not_ ,” he protests, though he’s laughing and grinning, too.

This goes on for a little while longer, until both men are breathless and panting, Bucky resting on a heap of pillows with Steve back on top of him.

“You gonna admit it?” Steve, the little fucking shit, asks once more, rolling his hips against Bucky’s just to make him moan.

“Rule number one, never admit anything.”

“Hmm… _never_? Not _any_ thing?” Steve pretends to think, humming as he sucks a trail of kisses into the skin of Bucky’s throat, down to where his neck becomes collarbone.

“Missed you,” Bucky admits in a voice barely above a breath, arching up into the hot press of Steve’s mouth on his throat.

When Steve touches him, Bucky feels like more than a broken pile of mismatched parts.

“That so?” Bucky can feel Steve’s smile against his neck.

“ _Mm_. Yeah. What of it?”

“Nothin’,” Steve is moving lower now, leaving a trail of slow, deliberate kisses over Bucky’s chest, over the muscles of his abdomen, the dips and vee of his hipbones.

And, _fuck_ , that’s Steve’s mouth on his cock, hot and wet and more than Bucky can take. His metal fingers twist into the bedsheets as Steve curls his tongue cleverly, cripplingly.

“Gonna be over before it even starts, you keep on like that, Cap.” Bucky grits out, trying to slow the tide of orgasm building up.

Steve pulls off of Bucky’s dick with a wet _pop_ , lips red and shining with spit. His eyes are so bright and so blue, they’re like a jolt to Bucky’s heart, zinging through his blood like electricity.

“You wanna call me Cap in bed, you can’t complain when I pull rank later,” Steve’s pink mouth is curved up in a filthy smirk and makes him look ten kinds of sinful.

And _oh_ , isn’t _that_ an idea for another day? Bucky bites back a moan thinking about Steve wearing a uniform and giving him a dressing down. Literally.

But, as it is, Bucky’s got a half-naked Steve holding his hips down and flicking his tongue over Bucky’s cock head, so that little fantasy can wait.

“In my mouth or my ass?”

Dazed, halfway over the edge already, Bucky lifts his head a little to blink down at Steve. “Huh?”

Grinning like the devil, Steve spits into the palm of his hand, wraps it around Bucky’s cock, and pulls idly. Bucky’s hips give a jerking thrust of their own volition.

“I said,” Steve enunciates, grinning as he draws out each word, “would you rather come in my _mouth_ ,” he licks his lips, “or my ass?”

Bucky thinks that maybe he’s died, because this is too much. He’s never once done a thing to deserve this.

“ _Jesus_ , Rogers. Filthy mouth you got,” Bucky manages to say, trying to make sense of what’s going on, how they got here so quick. His brain catches up, though, and he does a double-take. “Wait, did you say in your—fucking _hell_ , Steve. Fuck.”

“So, should I grab the lube, or..?”

“Yes, Steve, grab the goddamn lube. Preferably before I die here from lack of blood flow to all other areas of my body.”

Bucky can’t imagine why he’s waited so long to get to this place, but he’ll kick himself for that later; now, he’s too preoccupied with the feel of Steve’s mouth on his and Steve’s thumbs digging into his hipbones. They fit like they were made for each other, Bucky thinks drunkenly.

When they pull back for air, Steve looks wrecked. His hair is sticking up at wild angles, and his cheeks are flushed and lips are bitten red. Bucky thinks he should look like this all the time, totally and utterly debauched.

“Fuck,” Bucky says eloquently, brushing his thumb across Steve’s full lower-lip.

“I know,” Steve agrees, before pulling Bucky in for another slow, searing kiss.

“Rogers?” Bucky pants amid the fevered slide of lips and tongue.

“Uh-huh?”

“Get those pants off before I use my left arm to shred ‘em.”

 

 

Steve’s answering laughter is, like everything else about him, the most beautiful thing Bucky’s ever known.

.

When they’re lying all tangled up in each other, after, Bucky notices that the fear seems further away. Like it’s on a train headed for somewhere on the other side of the world, waving from an ever-growing distance.

Bucky breathes, in and out, before giving voice to the little thoughts that are nagging, keeping him from sleep.

“I love you, alright? I’d have thought that was fairly obvious by now,” he tells the dark room, tells the guy he’s somehow got lucky enough to find. “I know it hasn’t been that long—not to mention, it’s cliche as fuck to say this after we banged, but—”

“—Oh, shut up, moron. I love you too,” Steve huffs, pulling Bucky closer to him so he can kiss the top of his head.

And for once, Bucky is almost a hundred percent convinced that yeah, maybe it _can_ actually be this easy, this simple.

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this, not with anyone, not ever. His body seems to light up like a switchboard at Steve’s every touch, and there’s something warm in Bucky’s chest like a light that won’t go out.

Burrowing into Steve, he thinks _fuck it, let it go_. He doesn’t need to be afraid anymore.

Snow is falling outside the window, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky doesn’t resent it.

Maybe snow’s not so bad when there’s someone to keep you warm.

. .

 

Christmas obligations have Steve and Bucky ready to tear their hair out.

Someone thought it would be a fantastic idea to have a big, group gathering at Tony’s place in Manhattan, and then that same person refused to let the idea die. So, on Christmas Day, the Bombshells and support staff (and dates), Steve and Bucky, and Sam Wilson make the traffic-laden trek to Stark’s big, modern eyesore of a tower.

“I’m already regretting leaving the apartment,” Bucky mutters under his breath, glancing out the window of their cab at the flow of cars moving at a snail’s pace.

“You’n me both,” Steve agrees, sighing heavily.

He did promise that they could sneak out early, if Bucky wanted. Do a little celebrating of their own. Bucky clings desperately to the hope that Steve’ll keep that promise.

.

When they arrive, Pepper Potts is waiting to show them in, dressed far more casually than Steve’s ever seen her.

He’s always liked Pepper; she’s an impeccable businesswoman and sharp as a whip, but always genuinely warm.

“Tony’s in the den with Clint, Kate, Darcy, and the Maximoff twins.” She tells them, taking Steve by the arm. “You know where the kitchen is, James. Natasha is waiting for you,” she nods to Bucky, who groans before dragging himself off in the direction of the kitchens.

Bucky’s been recruited for kitchen duty (and Steve’s cursing himself for letting it slip that Bucky could cook), so he’ll be trapped with Natasha, Carol, and Tony’s best friend Colonel Rhodes for the better part of the afternoon.

Steve’s mildly disappointed that he won’t get to watch Bucky in action; he’s seen him cook and bake quite a lot in the last couple months, but Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of it. The little frown of concentration that Bucky gets when he’s separating whites from yolks, or when he’s piping macarons onto a cookie sheet—Steve feels his goofy grin just thinking about it.

“Rogers! Glad you could make it!” Tony calls from the couch, voice echoing through the ridiculously huge room that Pepper had referred to as ‘the den.’ Barton and Bishop raise matching mugs of something definitely alcoholic, and Wanda gives a happy little wave.

“Thanks for having us,” Steve replies, kicking off his shoes where everyone else has left theirs on the mat before shuffling over to the couches.

“I hear your man is a kitchen goddess,” Darcy drawls, looking up at Steve from where she’s resting her head in Pietro Maximoff’s lap.

“That he is,” Tony chimes in, not looking away from the intense game of MarioKart playing out on the immense projector screen. “Barnes actually does pastries for Pepper’s important business brunches sometimes. Light as fucking air, I tell you what.”

Steve settles in on one of the sofas, gladly taking a mug from Clint when he offers. The contents are steaming gently, and they smell like cloves and spices.

“It’s _grzaniec_ ,” Kate says as Steve takes a little sip. “Polish spiced wine. I use white instead of red, though. Nobody likes having wine lips all night.”

The flavor bursts and curls on Steve’s tongue, vaguely citrus and wholly tasty. There’s even a stick of cinnamon resting against the edge of the mug.

“ _Kasia_ here only likes to be Polish when it suits her,” Clint pokes Kate in the ribs, earning himself a swift kick to the shin.

“Mostly when it involves drinking,” Kate rolls her eyes. “Or eating. Not so much the heavy-Catholicism. Hey, that reminds me, I brought _bryndza_ and highlander pancakes,” and she scampers off in the direction of the kitchen.

Steve gives Clint a look over the edge of his mug.

“It’s a soft sheep cheese,” Clint explains, passing Tony in the game with a little victorious punch of the air. “Don’t be weirded out, I promise it’s awesome.”

Steve grins and downs the rest of his wine, reaching for the carafe to fill his cup again. “You know I’ll eat anything,” he reminds Clint, who nods in agreement.

“Oh, I totally forgot, is there anything special I should do for you guys?” Tony glances away from the game at Wanda, Pietro, and Darcy. Steve remembers that all three of them are Jewish, and subsequently feels like an ass for forgetting.

“No, do not give trouble,” Wanda says, waving her hands and laughing. “As long as food is kosher, no worries.”

“OMG,” Darcy exclaims, sitting up on her elbows to shoot a mock-glare at Wanda. “You know we could have told him _anything_ and he’d have done it so as not to be a religiously insensitive host.”

“Would not,” Tony lies, eyes darting away.

“I don’t know why he pretends like he’s not ultra-considerate about this shit,” Steve rolls his eyes at the others. “Natasha was telling me that two years ago, Tony bought the Orthodox church she goes to to save it from being torn down due to costs.”

Tony pauses the game and levels Steve with a betrayed look. “You can’t just go telling people about that shit, Rogers. What’ll it do to my image?”

. 

Bucky is sweatier than he has any right to be, after slaving away for nearly four hours in Stark’s mega-kitchen.

Between the five of them, (Bucky, Natasha, Rhodey, Peggy, and Carol) they’ve managed to whip up a staggering amount of food _and_ dessert.

Bucky thinks he could use a shower. And a nap.

“Your pie looks about finished, James,” Peggy says, reaching around Bucky to pull a pair of oven mitts from a sleek, noiseless drawer. “Shall I take it out?”

“Yeah, and make sure ‘Tasha doesn’t stick her fingers in it before it’s served.” Bucky warns, eyeballing Natasha, who is currently perched on the counter, swinging her legs like a little kid.

The five of them have spots of flour on their clothes and faces, a couple of minor burns on their fingers, and all in all, Bucky feels the general hum of satisfaction from each person.

“Think those layabouts are ready to do some eating?” Rhodey says, wiping his forehead with a clean dish towel.

“They’d better be,” Carol says mildly, reaching for the rag when Rhodey’s finished with it. “And I’d better not hear one peep out of anyone about how something is cooked. It’s Christmas, and I don’t wanna have to knock anyone out.”

Bucky wholeheartedly agrees. Though, he thinks with a private snort, blood red would be rather festive.

. . .

“I _need_ that sweet potato pie recipe,” Sam groans after eating the last bite of his slice. “Seriously, Rhodey, I’m willing pay unspoken sums.”

Colonel Rhodes just grins and shakes his head. “My grandmother would rise from the grave to give me what-for with her old wooden spoon.”

Everyone has eaten their weight in food, now sipping cups of coffee and munching cookies or pie or cake around the table. Bucky can’t remember the last time he actually did something like this, maybe when he was a teenager, with his family? Across the table, Steve is dunking a spice cookie that Bucky baked into a mug of coffee spiked with Frangelico. He catches Bucky staring at him and offers a big, happy smile.

“Alright, alright, so, we’re all gonna let our stomachs settle before taking this party elsewhere,” Tony says, and is met with a chorus of groans.

“As you know, Tony’s graciously offered us the use of his indoor rink,” Natasha says with a sly smile. “Burn off some of those calories.”

Even though they should be in food comas, the Bombshells are all looking a little bit perkier in their seats.

“Can we play Cap-Smash again?” Asks Maria innocently, widening her eyes.

“Is ‘Cap-Smash’ the game where y’all get to knock Steve on his ass for an hour?” Sam asks, looking more alert than he had five minutes ago.

“Yes, and it’s the greatest game I’ve ever known,” Maria says feelingly, raising one clenched fist and gazing into the distance.

Bucky looks at Steve again, and he’s making that face of his that means he’s done something sneaky and he’s way too pleased with himself.Bucky aims a kick at Steve’s foot under the table, making him drop his fourth cookie directly into his tea.

“What’d you do, Cap,” Sharon asks warily. “Should we be worried that you filled our skates with shaving cream?”

Bucky snorts into his eggnog. “Is that something you’ve done, Steve?”

“To the guys back in my hockey days, once, yeah.” Steve’s foot finds his under the table, knocking gently against it once before settling like a comfortable weight atop Bucky’s foot.

“You’re such a shit, I swear.” Bucky rolls his eyes, fighting a sappy grin. He loves that Steve is such a goof, even if it can be maddening some days.

Then, in a bustle of noise and heavy footfalls, most of the Brooklyn Avengers and the petite Dr. Foster are standing in Tony’s dining room, hockey bags slung over their shoulders.

“We heard the Bombshells were looking to practice hitting,” Peter Quill says with a shit-eating grin.

“A big, blonde birdie told us this was the place to be,” Logan says around a fat, unlit cigar. “Humbly offer ourselves as targets, or some shit.”

“I am most glad to be here on this glorious day! Let us be pummeled in honor of the season!” Thor exclaims merrily, sending Peggy Carter snorting helplessly into her drink.

 

So that’s how it ends up being Thor, Peter, Pietro, Logan, Alex, Clint, and Steve being chased by a cackling pack of Bombshells (plus, to everyone’s shock, Pepper) across the freshly waxed floor of Tony’s indoor track.

Tony, Sam, Bucky, Darcy, Jane Foster, and Rhodey sit on the sidelines cheering and whooping when one of the guys gets knocked out.

When Maria and Pepper pull off an intricate maneuver that causes Thor to collide head-on with Clint and send them both out of bounds, Bucky decides he's not nearly scared enough of these women. 

“You know your girlfriend is nuts,” Bucky says conversationally to Sam, cracking open another beer with his metal hand.

Sam grins, swigging from his own bottle and shaking his head. “Man, you’re telling me,” he laughs. “She beat me at arm wrestling in front of my brothers and my dad last night. My ego may never recover.”

“Aw, who needs egos anyway?” Rhodey says, clinking his beer bottle with Sam’s and Bucky’s. “Well, besides Tony.”

“My ego is a beautiful, rare flower,” Tony says, not taking his eyes off of Pepper, who skates pretty damn well. Bucky wonders if she couldn’t be persuaded to join the Bombshells.

 

Somehow, after about a half-hour of target practice, the Bombshells decide to teach the hockey players how to play derby, and after a lot of hilarity, they actually manage to simulate gameplay. Pietro and Wanda are the jammers, fiercely competitive even in the ridiculousness of an impromptu holiday skate, and Steve is standing on the sidelines with Clint, blowing his whistle to start the mock-bout.

And it’s…it’s a total train wreck, is what it is, but it’s so damn _fun_.

Everyone is smiling, whether they’re skidding into the person in front of them or whizzing past to take the lead.

When Peggy and Sharon catch Pietro by linking their arms around his to yank him off his skates, Bucky curses himself for not having his phone ready to take a video.

. .

Later, after more drinks in front of Tony’s huge, efficient fireplace, the group starts to disperse back out into their various corners of New York City. Peggy and Natasha are going back to their apartment, which means Sam will go to Maria’s so Steve can take Bucky home with him.

In the cab on the way back to Brooklyn, Steve watches the lights from passing cars move across Bucky’s face, studies him in profile.

He’s done probably a hundred drawings of Bucky by now, maybe more. Sometimes, he finds himself sketching just the outline of Bucky’s lips on a napkin at a coffee shop, or mapping out the lines that make up Bucky’s nose. Steve has traced Bucky’s features with a fingertip countless times since he got permission, and now the only thing stopping him from reaching over to touch is the fact that he doesn’t want to wake Bucky.

Steve knows he’s just the right side of drunk, that he’s thinking all manner of sappy thoughts without a trace of shame. But it’s Christmas, and if you can’t think sappy, drunk thoughts about your boyfriend on Christmas, Steve thinks, when _can_ you?

Steve spends the rest of the way home looking out the window at the falling snow, turning to smile stupidly at the sleeping man next to him every so often, trying to keep that warm, glowing feeling in check. 

 

(Bucky grumbles when it’s time to leave the warmth of the cab, all the way up the stairs to Steve’s apartment. He hushes up real nice though when they’re tucked into bed, metal arm wrapped tight around Steve’s waist to keep him pulled in close. Like Steve would go anywhere. Like he’d _want_ to.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides*
> 
>  
> 
> Shameless, shameless fluff. I know. I'm aware. 
> 
> AND WE ARE ALMOST AT THE END. AAHHH. 
> 
> I'm gonna try to make this last part EXTRA long, because there's still quite a bit I was hoping to get through, including a 2-years-later epilogue sort of deal. 
> 
> Sorry for the long gap between updates, but I was spending every second of last week with my beloved Finnish BFF <3 Many a dokumentti was watched. 
> 
> Thank you all for leaving love and sticking with the story! Almost to the end!
> 
> <333


	10. Chapter 10

 

After the new year starts, things become increasingly domestic between Steve and Bucky, though they don’t actually live together yet.

More often than not, they’re at Steve and Sam’s (the latter of whom is almost always at Maria’s) watching bad television or the hockey game or bickering over the dinner cooking or wrestling on the living room floor, breathless and laughing.

Steve learns more about Bucky all the time, learns what he likes (wearing Steve’s clothes; having his hair played with) and what he hates (being called ‘Jim’; Steve only does it to get a rise out of him, usually when he’s bored and antsy and can’t fight the urge to stir up trouble.)

They touch on tougher subjects with better ease; there’s a surety between them now that wasn’t there before, and with it comes a stronger trust. Bucky still has nightmares sometimes, but his flashbacks never get violent anymore, and Steve has his own nightmares to be banished.

 

The derby home season keeps on keeping on, and Bucky tells Steve thinks that maybe he’d like to skate for the LaGuardians, New York’s better-known men’s derby league team.

(Steve is beyond thrilled to find out that the men’s teams sometimes do special crossover bouts with the women’s teams, a fact which makes him want to punch the air in victory for some damn gender equality in at least one sport.)

Bucky, of course, makes the team his first tryout, easy as you please. He picks the number 42 (because he’s a Douglas Adams fan, he vehemently asserts, not because it was Steve’s old Avengers number) and the much-applauded derby name Bucky the Vampire Slayer.

Steve isn’t sure who’s more proud of Bucky; Steve, Natasha, or Bucky himself.

He is, of course, a natural blocker and pivot. The day of Bucky’s first official practice with the team, Steve barely lets him get through the door before mauling him against the kitchen counter.

Apparently, hitherto unknown to Steve, he has a thing for sweaty guys with skate bags.

(Steve knows, though, that he’s really just got a thing for one sweaty guy, skate bag or not.)

. .

It’s crazy how fast time flies; before Steve knows it, it’s Valentine’s day and he’s actually got someone to get all stupid and gooey over.

Or, you know, panic for a straight week about how to play it.

He tries to be subtle, drop hints and carefully attempt to ascertain whether or not Bucky thinks the holiday is a load of bull created by greeting card companies and blah blah blah. Steve also tries asking Natasha when Bucky’s in the shower, but she is somehow even less than her normal amount of unhelpful.

(She looks up at him, sprawled across the sofa with her head in Peggy’s lap, and wrinkles her nose and goes “Jeez, Rogers, anyone would think you didn’t know your own boyfriend.”)

(Peggy offers Steve a smile that’s half-sympathetic, half-nostrils gently flaring in amusement. “You can’t go wrong with food and good sex, Captain,” she says in that crisp, posh accent of hers, which makes Steve go beet red and excuse himself to go wait in Bucky’s bedroom.)

 

About a week before, he offers to buy Sam dinner from that one Korean-Mexican fusion hole-in-the-wall place he likes, just so Steve can ask him what the hell he’s supposed to do.

Sam looks considerably unimpressed as he stares flatly at Steve from across the table of their booth, even though he’s halfway through a Korean BBQ burrito that Steve knows for a fact tastes like heaven in a tortilla.

“Dude, you’ve been dating him for what, six months? And you never thought to ask him where he stands on pretty much _the_ most divisive holiday in all of relationshipdom?” Sam shakes his head, reaching for his horchata.

Steve feels an unnerving sense of deja vu, sitting across from Sam and feeling totally inept at dating, yet again.

“How can I be this clueless?” He groans, eyeing his remaining tamales balefully, like they have no right to taste so good when Steve is so hopeless.

Sam rolls his eyes and gestures with his hand like he always does when he’s about to break things down and make them seem infinitely less like impending doom.

“Look, Steve, if you want to do something for him for Valentine’s, then you should. Simple as that,” he shrugs, snatching up one of Steve’s fries and popping it smugly into his mouth.

And just like that, Steve feels stupidly, embarrassingly relieved, like most people who come to the realization that they’re being overly dramatic and making mountains out of molehills often do. “God,” he laughs, running a hand through his hair.

“How do you always do that?”

“Do what,” Sam grins, “Help you see the error of your overthinking goober-ways? Don’t know, guess I’m just like, the Gandalf in your life.”

Steve snorts, reaching for one of his tamales.

“Dude, don’t give me ideas. I will draw you as Gandalf and paper the neighborhood with it,” he warns, pointing with one hot-sauce smudged finger.

“You say that like it’s a _bad_ thing,” Sam counters.

. .

On Valentine’s day, Steve takes Bucky to a restaurant where they walk through aisles full of market-fresh ingredients and choose exactly which ones will go into their meals.

It turns out to be the perfect call; Bucky is practically humming with excitement, eyes going wide and shiny when he realizes exactly how the restaurant works.

Then, he’s inspecting peppers and examining different herb-infused olive oils, discussing the various fresh-caught fish available with the man behind the counter. Bucky is totally in his element here, just like Steve had hoped; cooking always seems to make Bucky light up brighter than anything.

They end up having expertly prepared lemon-pepper and goat cheese pasta with seared Ahi steaks on a bed of sautéed vegetables, paired with a pretty spectacular wine Bucky selected with surprising certainty.

“Y’know, you’re not the only one who can be all romantic on stupid Hallmark holidays,” Bucky remarks slyly over dinner, sipping his wine and cutting his eyes at Steve.

“You didn’t have to—”

“—Honestly, Rogers, for a smart guy, you can be real dumb sometimes,” Bucky snorts, pulling an envelope out of his jacket and passing it across the table to Steve.

“Jerk,” Steve mutters, inelegantly opening the envelope. All the sarcasm goes out of him, though, when he sees what’s inside.

He snaps his head up to stare wide-eyed at Bucky, who shrugs and half-smiles, raising his eyebrows.

“ _Shit_ , how did you—?”

Bucky shifts in his seat, looking away and grinning with slightly flushed cheeks.

“C’mon, Stevie, who do we both know that loves to use his obnoxious wealth to help his friends not look like complete tits on Valentine’s day?”

In Steve’s hand are two tickets for a show on his birthday, which he’s pretty sure should be haloed in golden light with a chorus of angels singing faintly at the other end of the restaurant.

“I can’t believe you got me fuckin’ _Springsteen_ tickets,” he gasps, unable to stop staring at the words printed on the glossy ticket paper.

“ _Good_ fuckin’ Springsteen tickets, too,” Bucky says, lips curling into a smug smile. “God only knows what you see in a guy from Jersey,” he adds.

“Buck, this is…” Steve falters, the result of being wholly unprepared for a thoughtful gift of this magnitude.

“The best present you ever got? Aw, go on.” Bucky flashes him a full-on grin, the one that’s too charming for its own good, the one that sure as hell would have got Steve in heaps of trouble had they met when they were younger.

“I hate to spoil such a perfect moment, but…” Steve sighs, looking back up at Bucky, “You know you’re gonna have to come with me to this, right?”

Bucky, for a second, looks completely poleaxed. Steve considers taking a picture with his phone.

Instead, he settles for letting out a belly-laugh that gets them a few looks from the other restaurant patrons.

“Holy shit, you totally thought you could give me Springsteen tickets and not have to be my date to the thing, that’s adorable.” Steve says, not even bothering to hide his glee.

The expression on Bucky’s face is a mix of betrayal and _what-have-I-done_ , and Steve is actually lightheaded from the giddiness and the wine and the absurdly perfect twist his life seems to have taken since meeting Bucky Barnes.

“I’m going to see Bruce goddamn Springsteen on the fuckin’ Fourth of July,” Bucky says faintly, putting a hand to his forehead. “Jesus, Mary’n Joseph, no wonder Tony kept snickering about it.”

 

But in the cab home, Bucky kisses Steve with wine-tart lips and roaming hands, and Steve knows he can’t be too averse to the idea.

Especially not after Steve reminds Bucky of how he gets when he’s had a few more beers than usual, and summer’s in full swing, and he might not be able to keep his hands to himself too well.

 

All in all, they both agree, it’s a pretty great night, as far as bullshit consumerist-invented holidays go.

. . .

For Bucky’s birthday in March, Steve allows himself to be dragged out dancing, his annoyance mostly bluster on account of the fact that he loves watching Bucky dance.

They dress in proper shirts and slacks and Steve lets Bucky try, laughing and waving his hands, to teach him how to dance like people used to in a bygone era.

By the end of the night, Steve’s no better at the Lindy hop, but Bucky’s shining like the sun, gleaming with sweat and pride, a looseness to his limbs that Steve knows isn’t there nearly enough.

When they get home, he can’t get Bucky out of his clothes fast enough.

.

Also in March is St. Patrick’s Day, which Steve has never celebrated much more than watching _The Quiet Man_ and drinking a Guinness or two.

He should have known this year would be different.

 

St. Patricks Day involves a pub crawl to which all of the Bombshells and staff, plus Pietro Maximoff, Thor, and Tony Stark, all of the Mutant Schoolgirls (and Charles Xavier, who unfortunately is a package deal with Erik Lehnsherr), _plus_ a couple of guys from Bucky’s derby team, a tall guy in glasses named Hank and a guy named Wade who never seems to stop talking about the weirdest shit of all time.

At the second bar of the crawl, Tony loudly announces that he’s buying shots for everyone in their absurdly large group, and Steve can almost _feel_ the hangover he’s going to have tomorrow.

“Cap, take a shot with us!” shouts Sharon, sitting in Jean Grey’s lap and kicking her feet enthusiastically.

“Yeah, Cap,” Bucky purrs, mouth right next to Steve’s ear. “Take a shot with us.”

And just like that, Steve is downing an Irish car bomb and pointedly ignoring the fact that all Bucky has to do is use that voice, and Steve’s judgment goes down the toilet.

 

By the fourth bar, Maria and Sam are standing on a table (egged on by the owners, in fact) doing dramatic and pretty decent karaoke of U2’s _With Or Without You_.

Steve is beginning to feel overly warm, nursing a strong but pleasant buzz and gripping a beer he’s mostly just holding for show.

Thor and Darcy give a rousing performance of _Paradise City_ which involves a lot of hip thrusting and arm movements that have everyone choking on their drinks.

Steve and Bucky agree with raised eyebrows that Darcy’s Axl Rose-voice is highly accurate and very impressive.

One thing Steve’s noticed as the night goes on; Erik Lehnsherr seems to scowl a lot less when he’s had several strong drinks. Originally, the stoic German had made a face when offered anything to drink, but then Charles had batted his ridiculous eyes at Lehnsherr at the first pub, and it seemed to do the trick nicely. Now, he’s actually smiling, gazing at his husband (who is currently chattering happily to Bucky’s derby teammate Hank about something to do with the human genome) with actual fondness.

“Barnes, why don’t you sing us something?” Calls Peggy over the noise of the bar crowd.

The owners are looking for more people to do karaoke; apparently it draws people in to hear drunk people singing their hearts out while sloshing drinks around.

Steve knows Bucky’s got a damn good singing voice, smooth and warm like smoke and honey, but he always laughs off any attempts Steve’s made to genuinely compliment him. He’s expecting Bucky to tell them all to fuck off, but to Steve’s surprise, his boyfriend merely rolls his eyes and sighs loudly before getting up and taking the microphone from Darcy.

“Yeah, yeah, you friggin’ hyenas,” he waves a lazy hand at his drunken friends. “Now shut up so I can sing somethin’ sweet to my Stevie.”

That gets a chorus of obnoxious cooing (led by Tony and Clint) while Bucky flips them off and tells the karaoke DJ his selection.

And the entire bar actually goes silent after the first two lines, that’s how sweet and golden Bucky’s voice is, and the song he’s picked has Steve doing that puddle-of-goo thing that always seems to happen when Bucky and drinking is involved.

“You know I’m such a fool for you,” Bucky catches Steve’s eye during the chorus and gives him a look that has him blushing to the tips of his ears. “You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, do you have to let it linger…”

“Shit,” Sam says, appearing at Steve’s side with a fresh beer. “Your boy’s got serious pipes. And _smolder_.”

“It’s a very special man who will drunkenly sing a Cranberries song to you in front of everyone you know in a bar,” adds Maria, popping up on Steve’s other side.

Steve is totally entranced, much like the rest of the bar patrons, until the song ends. Bucky grins sheepishly and covers his face when everyone breaks out in applause and whistles and hoots, though he accepts one of the drinks someone’s bought him before walking over to where Steve’s standing.

“I think we might have to make karaoke night a regular thing,” Steve manages to say, still a little starry-eyed about the whole deal.

Bucky shakes his head, laughing. “Shit, no.” He says, looking at Steve with those eyes of his.

“Aw, come on, Rogers! Aren’t you gonna give him a proper thank-you?” yells someone that sounds a lot like Natasha from amidst the crowd.

Steve’s not big on PDA, apart from hand-holding and a peck here and there (not counting the dirty dancing last Halloween, of course) but he really, really doesn’t give a shit here and now. He doesn’t hesitate for a second before pulling Bucky in for a kiss, dipping him with more finesse than Steve is usually blessed with.

When they come back up, Bucky looks like he’s seeing stars, and the entire bar erupts in loud, rowdy cheering.

.

The sixth and final bar of the crawl is luckily close enough to Steve’s place that he and Bucky can stagger home together.

It’s been the most ridiculous night Steve’s had in a long time, and though he’s too drunk to care now, he knows that he’ll definitely be paying for it tomorrow.

Today. Whatever, it’s late.

They decide to leave right around the time that the surprisingly formidable drinker Charles accidentally lets it slip that Wanda’s been discreetly seeing Eddie Jarvis for a few months.

(Steve’s pretty sure most of their gang clears out at that; the vein throbbing in Lehnsherr’s forehead was probably visible from space.)

Leaning against Steve, Bucky’s at that drunk stage where all he wants to do is cuddle, though they’re still a block or two away from home.

“Mmm. _Stevie_.” He says, not quite slurring.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Love you,” Bucky drawls, pressing a slightly messy kiss to Steve’s cheek.

Though he’s pretty wiped out, and even as tipsy as he is, Steve’s stomach flutters to hear it.

“Let’s get you home and in bed, though, huh?” He teases, nearly groaning at the thought of his nice, clean bed with its freshly changed sheets and cool-side-up pillows.

Bucky pouts, which should not be so maddeningly cute on an intoxicated, grown man.

“But Steve,” he whines, fixing Steve with the biggest, most glistening puppy eyes of all time. “I’m so _hungry_.”

And that’s how they end up ordering pizza from the only place that stays open until two in the morning, though Bucky manages to eat about one piece before his head is drooping and his eyes can’t stay open.

“C’mon, Buck, let’s wash up so we can go to bed, okay?” Steve says gently, feeling like a parent though he’s not much more sober than Bucky.

“Will you pet my hair when we lay down?” Bucky asks, and Steve has to laugh because when has he ever said no to this man?

.

The next day, they wake up swearing and sporting advanced bedhead, cursing the sun’s very existence.

They take a shower together, though they’re both too out of it to have any fun, make some tea, draw the blinds in Steve’s room, and settle in for a day of aspirin and complaining.

(Later, when they’re feeling less like death, they shower again. It’s much more fun.)

. . .

SUMMER

 

“I think it’s time we had a little talk, James,” Peggy says amiably, sitting down next to Bucky on the couch.

“Are you about to ask me to be your sperm donor? ‘Cus I dunno how I feel about that…”

Natasha flops down to Bucky’s right, smacking him upside the head.

“Shut up, idiot. Anyway, if we wanted a sperm donor, obviously we’d ask Steve,” she says, flicking Bucky’s ear.

“So what’s with the friendly ambush?” Bucky asks, feeling suddenly wary of his two roommates.

Peggy sighs, putting her hand on Bucky’s cheek and looking sincerely into his eyes.

“We want you to move out so we can fuck in every room of the apartment,” she says seriously, making Natasha snort and Bucky scowl.

“You’re kicking me out? Seriously?” He says, feeling a little stung. Natasha rolls her eyes, taking Bucky’s hand between both of hers.

“Look, James, I love you. We love you. But we also love each other, and when two ladies love each other very much…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You want to be free to screw without the third party gumming up the works,” Bucky wrinkles his nose, wondering how this became his life.

“What Natasha is doing a spectacularly crap job of saying is that we want to have the place to ourselves to see if, well, if we really work as well as we think we do.” Peggy says frankly, crossing her legs at the ankles. “And, if memory serves, you’re not without options.”

Bucky knows exactly what Peggy means, but it’s a train of thought that makes him so nervous, he’s never even made it out of the station.

It’s too much, he can’t ask that of Steve, not yet.

“We haven’t, uh, talked about that,” he says weakly, and it’s mostly the truth.

Bucky is well aware of the fact that since Sam and Maria got a place together last month, Steve’s been extra careful not to even hint about the possibility of the two of them living together. He loves that Steve is so considerate of his space, that he’ll put aside his own wants just to make sure that Bucky feels safe and certain. It’s almost driving Bucky nuts, though, just the waiting, the wondering if Steve will ever actually broach the subject.

“Oh, please,” Natasha says with a smirk. “Maybe he hasn’t said anything to _you_ , but we’re pretty much all aware of the saga of Steven Rogers and his quest to get his boyfriend to move in without ever actually asking.”

Bucky feels like a dick. He doesn’t want Steve, of all people, feeling like he’s got to walk on eggshells about this.

He also doesn’t want to be the thing standing in the way of his best friend having a real-grown up relationship this time.

This is one of those times, Bucky thinks with an internal wince, that he’s going to have to suck it up.

Pushing up off the sofa, Bucky blows a kiss to his soon-to-be former roommates.

“Nice chatting with you ladies,” he drawls, pulling his hair back into a bun and tugging on his ratty sneakers. “I gotta go see a man about a pretty big step in our relationship.”

 

When Bucky bites the bullet and tells Steve he’s in the market for a new apartment, Steve’s answering grin is so bright and so beaming, Bucky wonders why he was even worried at all.

Luckily, he realizes later, most of his shit has already migrated to Steve’s place anyhow.

. . .

June 24th, 2016

 

Literally everyone in Tony Stark’s private box at the arena loses their shit, Steve maybe more than anyone else.

The Avengers, for the first time in ten years, just won the Stanley Cup.

The sixth game of the final series, and the game-winning goal was scored by Logan, which makes Bucky’s inner fanboy level ratchet up by about a thousand notches.

The celebration with the team goes way too late, though at one point Logan actually offers Bucky a cigar, meaning Bucky can die fulfilled.

Steve doesn’t even feel bitter that he’s not a hockey player anymore; he’s too full of joy for his former teammates, his friends, who finally showed L.A. why hockey is best played in a state where it actually snows.

. .

July 4th, 2016

 

Bucky has never been a big Springsteen fan.

His dad used to go on and on about how great the Boss was, how his songs were about blue collar people with grease stains on their work shirts and grime under their nails. About America, the good, bad, and ugly.

In turn, Bucky used to complain and groan and roll his eyes as a teenager, every time he was stuck riding with his parents somewhere and Springsteen came on the radio. Once, he’d said that John Mellencamp was better than Bruce Springsteen, just to be a shit, and his dad had shot him a look of betrayal that Bucky’s only ever seen on his face that time.

He figures it’s some kind of divine karma that he’s in love with possibly the biggest Springsteen fan in New York, and being forced to attend a jam-packed concert on said-person’s birthday. Which happens to be God Bless America day. _Jesus_ , Bucky just bets someone up there is laughing their ass off about this.

(When he’d mentioned it to his parents in a check-in phone call, his dad had laughed for a full minute. Then, he’d told Bucky to get the damn lead out of his pants and bring Steve by the house for a visit.)

Now, closer to a stage than he’s probably ever been at a concert, Bucky is starting to _maybe, sort-of_ see why the Boss appeals to so many people.

For one thing, he’s a shockingly fit senior citizen who still puts on a four hour show. For another, the more Bucky listens, the more non-radio-played songs he hears, he realizes with horror that it’s actually _good_.

Steve is stock-still for most of the concert, staring reverently up at Bruce like he’s seeing an actual saint performing miracles.

Watching his boyfriend watch Bruce Springsteen, Bucky thinks that perhaps he was wrong about the Boss. Maybe he was too much of a snarky teenage prick to appreciate the gritty, jangly, lyrically-sharp songs of a guy who came from the working class of the working class.

Plus, Steve’s got a rosy kind of tan leftover from the wicked sunburn he got when they went to the beach a week or two ago, and his nose and cheeks are sprayed with freckles, and he’s wearing a goddamn tank-top of all things, and Bucky is literally weak in the knees as Bruce sings a dreamy song called  _Girls In Their Summer Clothes_ while fireworks pop against the night sky somewhere not too far away.

And when, in-between two songs of heavier content, Springsteen talks about veterans, about how the government doesn’t do right by the men and women who allow them to continue running this country, Bucky is absolutely certain he misjudged.

 

He doesn’t even care how smug Steve is gonna be tomorrow when he asks for a crash-course in Springsteen albums.

. . . . . .

 

EPILOGUE - 2 YEARS LATER

 

“A June wedding, really?” Bucky remarks dryly, turning the invitation over in his hand.

Natasha snatches it away, plucking it deftly from his grasp.

“Peggy loves the start of summer,” she says with a shrug, like that’s the end of the discussion.

Bucky never thought he’d see the day that Natasha Romanoff was willing to enter into a binding contract with another human being. Yet, here he is at Natasha and Peggy’s kitchen table, cramming embossed invitations into envelopes made of creamy, expensive paper.

“What about you and Rogers?” Natasha asks, adding three more sealed and addressed envelopes to the growing ‘complete’ stack.

Bucky knows what she’s asking, but he plays dumb anyhow.

“What about me and Rogers?”

Natasha snorts, tucking her hair behind her ear. “We’re all taking bets on who proposes first, him or you.”

Bucky nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Nobody’s doing any proposing,” he says sharply, feeling rattled.

“So, if Captain Wonderful asked you to marry him, you’d say no?” Natasha smirks, resting her chin on her hand.

And shit, she’s got Bucky’s number there.

…

On June 16th, 2018, Margaret Rose Carter and Natalia Alianovna Romanova are officially married in a ceremony in front of their teammates and friends.

Natasha wears the hell out of a three-piece suit that clings to her body like a second skin, freshly-red hair pulled back in a sleek bun.

Peggy dons a stunning lace-and-satin gown that used to be her grandmother’s, altered to a more modern silhouette. Her hair is in glossy, perfect curls, and her lipstick is the red Bucky recognizes as Natasha’s favorite.

The two of them, as well as their teammates (all of whom are standing up) are wearing their skates in lieu of shoes.

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand so tight when Nat and Pegs say their vows, blinking back stubborn tears he swore he wouldn’t shed.

Steve bumps Bucky’s shoulder with his own and squeezes his hand right back.

.

At the reception, to their mutual horror, Steve catches the bouquet without even trying to.

(Peggy purposely overshoots and flings the thing so it flies like a fastball toward Bucky’s head; Steve’s reflexes are just that quick.)

He has it in his hand, and blinks down at it stupidly for several moments before feeling himself go what is likely an astonishing shade of crimson, much to the glee of their entire collective group of friends.

.

Because it’s Natasha and Peggy, their first dance is an elaborate, incredible choreographed routine combining elements of lyrical and ballroom dancing, set to _Work Song_ by Hozier.

Steve’s never been much of a dancer himself, but watching the two newlyweds caught up in such an intense, passionate performance makes him wish he was. Both women move with fluid grace, not to mention athleticism honed to a fine point. The song is beautiful and lush and humid, the verses stark and the choruses layered in harmonies.

When their dance ends, Steve isn’t surprised when all the guests (and the venue staff) burst into spontaneous applause.

When the floor has been open for several songs, and a slow one comes on, Steve finds himself asking Bucky for a dance.

Content to let Bucky lead, Steve concentrates on not tripping over his own feet while some sleepy-eyed crooner sings _Eternally_.

“Is it lame that I’ve always loved this song?” Bucky asks, nearly nose to nose with Steve, warm, wine-sweet breath ghosting over Steve’s lips.

“If I say a little, will I still get laid tonight?” Steve replies, loving the sound of Bucky’s startled laughter.

“Nah,” Bucky says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Weddings kinda kill the mood for me.”

Steve doesn’t mean to, but he suddenly can’t help imagining what his own wedding would be like, if he and Bucky ever…

“Remember that bet, James.” Natasha says sternly as she and Peggy waltz expertly by. “I’ve got a lot of money riding on it.”

And Bucky’s cheeks flush and he scowls at the two women, both wearing beatific smiles as they glide away across the dance floor.

“Bet?” Steve asks, though he’s certain he doesn’t want to know.

“Oh, just Nat talking shit, as usual," Bucky clearly lies, but Steve doesn't push it. He's in too good a mood, and his boyfriend looks far too handsome, clean-shaven and in a suit. 

.

When they’re back at their place, brushing their teeth and jostling for the prime position directly over the sink, Bucky looks at Steve while he’s leaning down to spit out his toothpaste foam, and Bucky just _knows_.

It makes him dizzy, hits him all at once with the kind of lightheadedness that has nothing to do with the copious amounts of alcohol consumed at the reception.

When Steve finishes rinsing his mouth, he straightens back to normal posture and notices Bucky staring dazedly.

“Hey, you okay That’s So Raven? You look like you’re having a vision,” Steve says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and earning himself a metal finger in the ribs.

Bucky has to fight the equally insane twin urges to either flee the apartment, or drop to his knee right in the middle of their bathroom, with Steve in his goofy puppy-print pajama bottoms.

“Damn right, I had a vision,” Bucky lets the words rumble low in his chest, getting one arm around Steve’s waist to pull him close. “I had a vision of these pants on the bedroom floor.”

“And here I thought you said weddings didn’t put you in the mood,” Steve grins, rolling his hips against Bucky just because he can.

“That was before I got to see you in a tux holding a bouquet,” Bucky replies like an afterthought before closing the space between them in a kiss.

He knows he might be kissing a little too desperately, holding a little too tightly, but he really can’t help it; not now.

Bucky’s hands roam all over Steve’s ridiculous body, finding all the places that make him gasp sweetly into Bucky’s mouth.

They make it to the bed, but just barely.

 

As for proposing, they make it to the end of the month, but just barely.

 

(Natasha looks like she’s swallowed a frog when she finds out the bet is off; Bucky and Steve, being completely inept losers, of _course_ picked the same day to ask the damn question.)

 

 

END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, here we are *sniffles*
> 
> The END! 
> 
> I'm so, so grateful to everyone who has commented and left love and kept me excited to continue writing this fic. I've loved working on this so much, I don't think I'm going to be able to leave this AU for long! 
> 
> I've got a lot of other stuff in the works, but keep your eyes peeled for some fluffy extras set in this 'verse. 
> 
> Like weddings and family parties and all kinds of gooey, domestic, giggly fluff. 
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING! <3


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